


Unrealized Peacekeeper, Part 2 - Hanging By A Thread

by DarkAndDeep



Series: Unrealized Peacekeeper [2]
Category: Farscape
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 73,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAndDeep/pseuds/DarkAndDeep
Summary: John Crichton struggles to fit in with the Peacekeepers and find a way home.





	1. Valediction

_"I keep seeing you die." -- Pa'u Zotoh Zhaan  
_  
  
  
"What planet is that?"  
  
The quiet voice from behind her nearly startled Aeryn out of her skin.  She'd been deeply engrossed in the dual tasks of piloting a stealth trajectory towards the planet and monitoring comms traffic.  She hadn't heard the human approach.  
  
Turning her head, she met the bleary, bloodshot eyes, dark circles underneath marring an unshaven face.  Hard as it was to believe, she thought he might look worse now than when she'd found him in that cell on the gammak base.  
  
"There's no name in the files," she replied, turning back to her piloting.  "We're still well outside Peacekeeper jurisdictional boundaries.  All I could find was a notation indicating the availability of resources."  
  
"So how come we're here?"   
  
As irritating as it was to have him asking questions while she was trying to fly a delicate and precise course, Aeryn took it as a good sign.  It was the first indication of interest Crichton had shown in anything since waking aboard the Marauder three solar days before.   
  
"We're here because _someone_ failed to mention that the ship we were stealing was charged to less than one percent of capacity,” Aeryn said, “and stocked with just a few solar days' supply of rations."  She kept her tone light, having long since recovered from her initial irritation at the oversight.  "We didn't have enough fuel to make it back to the carrier.  This is one of the few destinations within range where we can acquire more."  
  
"Sorry about that," Crichton replied blandly, still staring at the view screen.  "Couldn't siphon too much from the PK gas tanks without getting caught.  Took us days to get what we did."  
  
"It's all right," she assured the distracted man.  "Heading directly back to the carrier would have been a bad idea anyhow; once Scorpius accessed the logs in my Marauder, he'd have known that Crais sent me.  Most of the pursuit will be in that direction."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
The vague, monosyllabic response was far more typical of Crichton's recent behavior.  The silence that followed dragged on until Aeryn once again nearly forgot he was there, her attention subsumed by the intricacies of piloting.  
  
Peacekeeper standard stealth trajectory called for an approach to a target along a direct vector from the system's primary star, so the saturation of energy from the sun would mask the ship's signature.  It required delicate calculations of planetary movements relative to the star and the necessities of a safe landing approach.  Normally, Aeryn wouldn't have bothered, but having someone report a lone Marauder so near to the gammak Base would be to Scorpius like a trail of blood to a Vorcarian.  It was best to keep a zero presence profile.  
  
After a hundred microts or so, a soft murmuring voice once again brought Officer Sun to awareness of her surroundings.  Glancing behind her, she could see Crichton still standing in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the wall.  He was staring at the planet as it grew ever larger on the screen, the sprawling metropolises visible even from space through the few scattered clouds.  
  
"What did you say?" she asked.  
  
"It's as good a place as any," he repeated, only slightly louder than before.  Before she could ask for an explanation, Crichton turned and limped away down the corridor.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Unlike the other two alien worlds John had set foot on in the past year, this one was bright and shiny and clean.  Everything he'd once thought an alien civilization should be.  The people, however....  Hell, even when they'd been tying him up and sticking a worm in his gut, the Sykarans had been more personable than these bastards.  
  
Lawyers.  Everywhere he looked, there were lawyers.  And not just that, but _sleazeball_ lawyers, every last one, dressed up in the same cookie-cutter outfits, with black hoods and leather skull caps hiding everything but their smug faces.  This place made him think longingly of Shakespeare; killing all the lawyers on this planet would be tantamount to genocide, but it might be worth it.  
  
John sat alone at the farthest end of the bar, drinking something he couldn't pronounce.  This was the closest refreshment house to the park where Aeryn had concealed the Marauder; he hadn't felt like wandering too far.  Stark was here, too, but he respected John's desire for solitude--perhaps even shared it--and sat a few seats away.  
  
"Crichton, what the frell are you doing?"  
  
He glanced up from his glass as Officer Sun barged through the door, obviously angry.  His eyes clouded at the familiar sight, recalling many pleasant evenings he'd spent in the carrier's lounge with her, and Tauvo, and....  
  
John shook his head to dislodge the image, reminding himself firmly that he didn't care anymore.  "Wha's th' matter, Ms. Sun?" he slurred.  
  
"Do you recall me saying that I wanted to be off this frelling planet by nightfall?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"So wha's stoppin' you?"  
  
"I seem to be short one crew member," she explained sarcastically.  
  
"Not goin' with you."  
  
The irate soldier slapped one hand down on the bar and spun him around on the bar stool with the other.  Heads turned all through the refreshment house, disdainful eyes glaring at the disturbance, hungry eyes watching anxiously for some violation of the law.  
  
"You're not--?  What the frell are you talking about, Crichton?  Where the frell else would you go?  You certainly can't mean to stay _here_!"  
  
"I'll find someplace.  I can't go back there, Aeryn."  
  
The Sebacean woman seemed to sense at last that this wasn't simply drunken stubbornness arguing with her.  "Crichton," she tried to argue, "You're a Peacekeeper officer.  You took the oath."  
  
"To hell with your 'oath'," he replied bitterly.  
  
"So your word means nothing to you?  And what am I supposed to do?  I've been ordered to retrieve you.  What am I supposed to tell Captain Crais?"  
  
He sighed.  "Do whatever you want, Aeryn.  Stay here, go back, tell them I'm dead, tell them I ran away with the circus--I really don't give a shit."  
  
"And if I decide to place you under arrest for attempted desertion and haul you back anyway?"  
  
John's head snapped up, a shot of fight-or-flight adrenaline bringing with it a semblance of sobriety.  He set his feet on the ground and tensed, ready to jump up if she made a move.  "I don't want to fight you, Aeryn."  
  
The woman had the temerity to laugh in his face, a harsh, bitter sound with no humor in it.  "If I truly intended to capture you, Crichton, you're drunker than you look if you really think you could prevent me."  
  
John relaxed a little at the word 'if', letting the insult float past without note.  "You saying you _don't_ intend to?"  
  
Aeryn's eyes raked over his figure with contempt, and John was keenly aware of what she was seeing.  The accommodations on the gammak base cell levels had been a bit light on the amenities, and the stolen Marauder hadn't been much better.  There'd been no spare clothing, and with three people subsisting on a ship stocked for two, there'd been no water to spare for personal hygiene.  He still wore the clothes he'd been captured in, and they were wrinkled and sweat-stained from days of imprisonment, torture and the aftermath.  His face bore at least a week's growth of stubble.  And while the alcohol in his system was numbing his nose, he knew he probably reeked of stale sweat, booze and fear like a skid row wino.  
  
"You're a disgrace to that uniform," she sneered.  "Pathetic and useless like all lesser species.  Stay here and rot for all I care!"  She stormed away without another word, sending the doors crashing into the outer walls in her rush to be elsewhere.  John watched them swing shut behind her, then turned back to order a fresh drink.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_That frelling...frellnik!_   Aeryn seethed with fury as she stormed down the busy evening streets, her stomach roiling with a hundred new and conflicting emotions.  _After everything I did for him, everything I've risked, he throws it in my face._  
  
Aeryn balled her hands into fists, glaring around at the self-absorbed citizens rushing past her.  She wanted to hit something, pound some hapless victim into the ground.  A cycle ago, she might even have done it.  
  
No one in her entire life--no enemy on the battlefield, nor cruel superior officer nor any of the older cadets who had tormented her as an adolescent for being small--had ever provoked her to this degree.  What was it about this alien man that could inspire such protective impulses one microt and drive her to dangerous levels of rage the next?  Everything she'd done in the past weeken--Hezmana, many of her thoughts and activities for the past half cycle, ever since their fateful visit to the _Zelbinion_ \--went completely against her Peacekeeper indoctrination.   
  
And the truly strange thing?  Even in the heat of her anger, she didn't regret any of it.  
  
She arrived at an intersection where a mechanical voice prattled on, instructing pedestrians to wait.  There was no traffic at present, and Aeryn was too angry to want to take orders from a mere machine.  She stepped into the road, ignoring the flashing blue light and the stern instructions from the traffic control computer.  
  
After that, everything happened too quickly.  Alarms sounded, and voices from behind her shouted, "Halt! Don't move!"  A large hand grabbed Aeryn by the arm.  Instinct took over, and she twisted around and slammed a fist into her assailant.  The man fell to the ground.  Other figures surrounded her, reaching to subdue her, and she let loose with every henta of her pent-up aggression, sending bodies flying on every side.  With every blow, she pictured the human's face, taking out her anger and frustration on these strangers who had ambushed her.  
  
In the end, however, there were too many of them, and they were armed with shock sticks.  She emerged from the haze of pain and rage wondering what the frell had happened.  Her body was pinned to the ground while her assailants roughly snapped restraints around her wrists.  It took a microt to realize that her captors were police officers; apparently they'd been trying to arrest her for something minor, and she'd just pounded her way into much deeper trouble.  
  
As they dragged her away, she glanced back at the unconscious bodies still littering the battleground.  A small part of her, one that wasn't preoccupied with worry about her situation, viewed the scene with satisfaction.  
  
She might be in serious dren but, for the love of Chilnak, that had felt good.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
It was the music, if you could call it that; that was what was driving him nuts.  It was too bouncy, too syncopated, like a jazz pianist on a caffeine high playing a poorly tuned instrument.  It was getting on his nerves.  If he'd been a little less drunk, he might have walked out and found a quieter place; a little less sober, and he might have pulled out the pulse pistol he'd strapped to his thigh and filled the jukebox full of little yellow bolts of light.  That is, if he could figure out what a jukebox looked like on this planet, or if there even was one.  
  
John sat nearly motionless, gazing into the half-empty glass on the bar in front of him.  He hadn't slept well in what felt like weeks.  Images of blood and death haunted him both waking and sleeping, vying with memories of torture and pain for air time in his nightmares.  
  
He rubbed a hand across his face, wiping away the tears he wanted no one else to see.  Showing weakness was dangerous.  
  
A shadow fell across the bar in front of him, and he turned warily to look.   
  
"Would you like...company?" Stark asked, his voice as tentative as his half-hunched posture.   
  
John thought about refusing, but he owed his fellow prisoner a bit of courtesy.  "Sure," he said with false cheer.  "Pull up a barstool."  
  
"I sense that you are...troubled," Stark began as he perched on the nearest seat.  
  
John had to chortle a bit at that major understatement.  "Gee, ya think?" he muttered.  Gesturing to the barkeep, he ordered a fresh drink for himself and one for Stark.  
  
"I overheard you talking to the Peacekeeper woman," Stark admitted after the drinks were served.  "You're not going back with her?"  
  
"Nope."  John's answer was soft, and carefully noncommittal.  He took a small sip from his glass.  
  
Instead of questioning further, Stark waited, his silence more eloquent and persuasive than any words.  
  
"I can't go back," John finally said, as if that clarified matters.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
John paused, letting the silence drag on.  It was a question he'd not really asked himself; he just knew he couldn't face being back on that monster ship.  Alone.  "Well," he said, looking for an excuse to avoid too much introspection, "like Aeryn said, Scorpy's gonna be looking for me and the carrier's the first place he'll look."  
  
"You think you'll be safer out here?"  
  
He shrugged.  "Sure.  Space is a big place; how's he gonna find me?"  
  
"He won't have to find you, Crichton," Stark informed him, bleak eyes shifting back and forth as if looking for danger.  "He'll post wanted beacons, offering a reward for your capture; bounty hunters will find you for him."  
  
John slashed his hand through the air in a drunken wave, feigning unconcern.  "So I'll keep moving, stay hidden.  At least I won't have to put up with all those Peacekeeper superior attitudes anymore, having folks look at me like I'm a bug or something just because I'm not Sebacean."  
  
Stark nodded sagely.  "This is true.  You will now be feared and despised because people assume you _are_ Sebacean.  The Peacekeepers do not have a monopoly on prejudice, Crichton, and they are hated on many worlds."  
  
"What's with you, Stark?  Don't you hate them for what they did to you?  It sounds like you're trying to talk me into going back to them."  
  
The Bannik shook his head, and his voice acquired a depth and gravity not previously present.  "I do not hate the Peacekeepers, Crichton.  They're no worse than many other powers in the universe, and better than some.  You have lived among them.  You have seen that they are not all alike."   
  
John thought of Aeryn, of Tauvo.  Of Gilina.   
  
"It was not the _Peacekeepers_ who tortured me," Stark explained.  "It was Scorpius.  He is half Sebacean, half Scarran, and he inherited the worst traits of both races."  
  
John thought about that, and decided Stark had a point.  Most of the Peacekeepers he'd encountered in the past year--cycle--had been callous and contemptuous, even hostile towards the inferior alien in their midst.  But there were a few who had been willing to look past his heritage and see him as a person, people he had learned to respect and who had in turn learned to respect him.  As angry and traumatized as he was by what Scorpius had done, he knew he couldn't in good conscience blame the entire Peacekeeper organization for the obsession and cruelty of one mad scientist.  
  
"Is this because of the woman who died?" Stark asked suddenly.  
  
John gave him a sharp look.  "Aeryn told you about her?"  
  
"No, no, no, she said nothing to me," Stark said, his manner veering towards the manic babble John had grown familiar with.  
  
"Then how the hell did you know?  You never saw her; you weren't even in the cell either of the times she contacted me."  
  
Stark's hands fluttered nervously on the bar.  "I am Stykera."  
  
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Among my people, the Stykera are gifted with special sensitivity.  We are attuned to the dying; we ease their suffering, help them make the journey."  
  
"So, what, you felt her...felt her die?  Is that it?"  
  
"Somewhat.  But when you were brought back to the cell, after, I sensed her spirit.  She was caught between, clinging to you as you were to her.  This is common when a loved one dies; at first, neither one wants to let go.  Eventually, though, one or the other accepts the loss and the spirit is freed.”  Stark wet his lips and glanced around the bar, as if fearful of being overheard.  
  
“This woman, her spirit was being drawn towards the other side, while your body lived and anchored you here.  But you were so weakened from the chair and the shock, your tie to this life was weak.  She was pulling you with her; left alone, you might have remained lost between until your body gave up the struggle to hold you.  Officer Sun asked me to help rouse you for the escape, so I intervened."  
  
"'Intervened'? How?"  
  
"I severed the bond, and helped the woman cross over.  Once freed, your spirit returned to this world."  
  
John didn't know whether to thank the man for helping Gilina, or curse him for his interference.  Hell, he didn't know if he even believed in this crap.  
  
"So is it because of her that you are staying behind?" Stark asked again.  
  
"What?  No, of course not," John insisted lamely, knowing it was a lie.  If only he hadn't been so stubborn, hadn't begged for just one more day to look at the wormhole equations, he and Gilina would have gotten away and might be sitting here together now.  This was all his fault.  He'd killed her, killed their child, and for what?  A chance to look at some stupid formulas that turned out to be completely wrong.  
  
Stark's voice found that deep and persuasive register again as he looked John straight in the eye.  "This is a decision that will shape your future, Crichton.  In such cases, the easy path very rarely leads you where you want to go.  Be sure you are acting from a true desire, and not out of fear of the alternative."  With that, Stark rose from his seat and vanished out the door into the darkness.  
  
It took a moment for the departure to register through the alcoholic haze surrounding John's senses.  "See ya," he called quietly to the empty doorway, then turned and laid his head down, cushioned by his folded arms on the bar.  He was so tired; all he needed was a moment to rest his eyes.  
  
  
  
Under the influence of both the alcohol and the hum of conversation around him, Crichton drifted into a state of semi-consciousness, the rise and fall of sound lulling him like ocean waves.  
  
An electronic beeping roused him partially, and John realized that at some point while he'd been out of it another patron had taken Stark's seat.  Still lethargic, he didn't move or even open his eyes.  
  
"Have you found anyone?" came a deep, tinny voice, probably from a comms.  That must have been the beeping, like a ringing phone.  
  
"Nothing yet," replied the woman seated next to him.  "I warned you that it might take many days to find the right candidate.  So far, the only off-worlder I've found is passed out at the bar; he's of no use."  
  
John realized she was talking about him, and resolved to stay still.  The last thing he needed was some strange lawyer deciding he could be 'useful'.  
  
The man on the comms replied.  "We may be in luck; an off-worlder was arrested tonight, on a traffic violation.  She attacked the enforcers and injured several before she was subdued."  
  
The woman sounded put out.  "Very well, Rhumann.  I will investigate this off-worlder.  Perhaps she will be the one we seek."  
  
Another electronic chirp ended the conversation, and John heard a rustle as the woman rose to her feet and departed.  
  
_Off-worlder...attacked the enforcers...she...._  
  
Was Officer Sun the alien they had arrested?  
  
  
  
It was nearly midnight before John managed to drag himself and his hangover out to the park where they'd stashed the Marauder.  He was dismayed to see it still crouched among the trees, just as they'd left it.  That alone told him it had been Aeryn who'd been arrested. She and it should have been long gone by now.   
  
He stood there for a little while, gazing at the silent ship.  The design had always reminded him of a huge bug, but tonight it looked almost alive in the strange shadows cast by the two gibbous moons.  It whispered to him, of freedom and safety.  They were light years from the gammak base, but John could still feel Scorpius' breath on his neck.  He needed to get far away, someplace the half-breed would never find him, and this ship could take him there.   
  
He'd have preferred the _Farscape_ , but she was still sitting in a hangar bay on the command carrier.  The Marauder, though, had several advantages.  He knew how to fly it, for one, which could not be said for any other type of vessel in this part of the universe.  It was armed, which might come in handy.  And it was fueled and stocked for a long journey, thanks to Officer Sun's hard work.  
  
_And Aeryn?_ wondered a small voice in the back of his mind.  
  
She'd be fine, he argued back.  From what he'd overheard, they'd arrested her for the Litigaran equivalent of jaywalking.  She'd get a fine, maybe a day or two in jail tops, then she'd call for help and get picked up by a passing Peacekeeper ship in no time flat.  And best of all, she could tell the truth when they questioned her, that the frelling human had stolen her ship while she was incapacitated.  She wouldn't have to lie for him.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
By the time she reached the police station, Aeryn had broken free of her captors twice, only to be jabbed into submission by the shock sticks each time.  According to her public counselor, she’d racked up more than a dozen counts of assault against police officers on her list of charges.  
  
The counselor had refused to speculate on her likely sentence, but she had the distinct impression that, unless she managed to do something soon, she might be trapped on this world for a very long time.  Her career would be ruined, assuming she ever made it back to duty at all.  She'd be lucky not to be judged irrevocably contaminated.  
  
Pacing back and forth in her cell, Aeryn stared out into the empty midnight shadows of the corridor, hearing nothing but the echoes of her own measured footsteps.  She contemplated just how far to Hezmana this day had gone.  A brief stopover to purchase supplies--that was all it was supposed to be.  But first a man she'd grown to like and respect, a man she'd just taken great risks to liberate, had chosen to abandon her and the security of the Peacekeepers for a life as a hunted fugitive, alone.  And now she was a prisoner of a retrograde society made up almost entirely of lawyers.   
  
The translation of that word--lawyer--had been an archaic concept she only recognized from some of the most ancient Sebacean texts that had been part of her training.  It was a specialty that had long since fallen out of use among the Peacekeepers, and one, as far as she could see from this world, that they were better off without.  
  
She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, not to mention sore from the repeated applications of the shock sticks.  She knew she should sleep; she might need every edge she could get tomorrow.  Her feet, however, refused to cease their endless oscillations across the small, high-tech cage.  Plans and tactics swirled through her mind, training and doctrine on capture, escape and evasion of pursuit.  
  
The worst of it was not the capture or the confinement.  Aeryn had been a prisoner of one sort or another five times now in the past cycle, so this was not a new experience.  But this time was different.  This time, she was alone.  
  
Alone.  It was a frightening word, a terrifying concept, for one who had never truly experienced it before.  Even aboard the Marauder on her way back to the carrier, when she'd been the only person aboard, she had still been in the carrier's sphere of influence, her location and situation known through daily status reports.  If she'd gotten in trouble then, the response would have been swift and deadly.  But no one knew she was here; no one would be coming to her aid.  Even John Crichton, her companion or rescuer in all of her previous incarcerations, was likely still getting dren-faced in a refreshment house out in the city. He had no idea Aeryn was in trouble.  Nor, she thought bleakly, did it seem that he would care.  He'd made his position quite clear on that point earlier.  
  
Someone cleared their throat nearby, startling Aeryn to a stop.  She turned to find a woman standing outside the cell, and silently cursed herself for getting so caught up in her own thoughts that this tralk had been able to sneak up on her.  
  
"Rough night?" the woman asked, her voice oily and condescending.  
  
Aeryn said nothing, just glared at her through the heavy metal bars.  
  
The woman held up an object in her hand; in the low light, Aeryn couldn't distinguish what it was.  "You want to escape?" the stranger asked.  "This is your chance."  With that, she pointed the device in her hands at the center bar and the metal gradually melted away, leaving a space more than wide enough for a person to squeeze through.  
  
Aeryn narrowed her eyes suspiciously.  She could smell a trap being laid for her; total strangers did not walk into police stations and release prisoners without some ulterior motive.  
  
The woman tucked the device away and pulled out a sheet of flimsy paper.  "This will show you how to get out of the building; what you do after that is your affair."  
  
Aeryn stood unmoving for a few microts.  She could ask why, but if it was a trap, the stranger would only lie to her anyway.  So questions were pointless.  She stepped cautiously towards the opening and looked both ways down the corridor.  
  
"I would hurry if I were you," the woman said impatiently.  "The guards will be back at their posts any microt.  There won't be a second chance to escape."  
  
Stepping through the opening, Aeryn reached a hand out for the paper.  As the woman handed it over, Aeryn turned and delivered a swift Pantak jab.  She quickly examined the very specific route laid out like a map, then dropped the paper onto the floor next to the unconscious body.  It was probably poor thanks for someone apparently doing her a favor, but Aeryn wasn't about to leave anyone at her back who could either spring the trap or have a change of heart and notify the authorities.  
  
Like a shadow, silent and swift, Aeryn moved through the corridors.  She'd memorized the woman's map with the intention of avoiding the designated route, but every other exit was blocked.  Resigned to the risky path, she approached each corner and alcove with the stealth of a Black Ghost behind enemy lines.  
  
It was still dark outside when she finally reached the alley.  Somewhere out of sight, the planet's moons still shone, bathing the scene in a dim, diffuse light reflecting off the surrounding buildings.  Aeryn, crouched low against the wall, listened and watched for nearly thirty microts; the alley seemed deserted, and beneath the roar of the city traffic, she could hear nothing suspicious.  Still, she kept herself alert for any noise that seemed out of place, then moved carefully, staying close to the wall.  
  
A shadow on the ground several motras away made her pause and crouch low.  It was shaped like a man, but the stillness spoke of death.  Bodies in alleys were common occurrences on some of the worlds she'd experienced over the cycles, but to find one here, now, was pushing the boundaries of coincidence.  It smelled like bait, but she still could not see the trap.  
  
She could, however, feel the pressure of time; the longer she waited, the more likely it was her escape would be noted and alarms would sound.  Moving forward was a risk, but so was staying still, and at least moving would get her closer to her Marauder and escape with every step.  
  
Cautiously, with her nerves strung tight, watching every corner and shadow for threats, Aeryn moved down the alley, staying as far from the body as she could.  
  
She sensed them a microt before they struck--a rustle of fabric, an indrawn breath, perhaps a flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye.  She whirled, putting her back up against the wall.  
  
The first policeman in the group rushed at her, weapon held ready and charged to full.  A voice from behind him shouted "Stand where you are!" but she paid it no mind. Knocking the weapon aside and grabbing the man's arm, she used the leverage to place a devastating kick to one knee.  As he began to fall, she grabbed his head and slammed it into the wall beside them.  He collapsed in a heap of quivering agony, and with a quick twist Aeryn was armed with her very own shock stick.  
  
Two more uniforms were approaching her from either side, while another, slightly slower, came at her head-on.  A kick and a pantak jab dispatched the two flankers, then she spun and jammed the shock stick into the third.  
  
There was a crackle and spark as the weapon discharged, but the officer didn't fall.  Didn't even twitch.  
  
_Frell.  
_  
The failure distracted her attention, and a blow to the head was her reward.  It sent Aeryn spinning to the ground, but she rolled quickly to her feet and tried to shake off the ringing in her ears.  Two pairs of meaty hands grabbed her arms in iron grips.  She lifted her legs off the ground and tried to allow her body weight to jerk her arms free, but at that moment a shock stick rammed into her abdomen.  As the charge ran through her body, her legs dissolved into twitching spasms and she sagged towards the ground, supported only by the officers holding her.  
  
She should have realized the cops might have some defense against their own weapons, to ensure that they couldn't be used against them.  Their uniforms must be insulated against the electric charges, which explained why the two holding her hadn't been affected by the shock that had taken her down.  Stupid, stupid oversight.  
  
An older man appeared before her as her vision returned, gazing down at her with a mix of satisfaction and disgust.  "You're under arrest, alien," he informed her.  "For mur--"  
  
A roar of sound drowned the man out, and then bright, blinding light filled the alley, making everyone wince and blink at the glare.  A booming voice followed through a loudspeaker.  "Let.  Her.  Go."  The voice was harsh and clipped, unrecognizable.  
  
As her eyes adjusted, Aeryn could just make out the silhouette of a ship hovering just above the ground at the end of the alley.  It swayed and dipped every few microts, as if the pilot couldn't quite hold it steady.  
  
The officer who had been speaking to Aeryn tried to put on a brave front, but Aeryn could tell it was an effort.  He called out towards the ship, "I am an officer of Litigara's enforcement division.  It is my duty to hold this alien for trial."  
  
The amplified voice from the ship chuckled, and Aeryn finally identified it.  "Goody for you, Roscoe," Crichton said sarcastically.  "I'm a Peacekeeper Marauder with a big fricking gun pointed right at your head.  I suggest you let the woman go before I get annoyed."  
  
There was a long silence, but Aeryn never found out if the cop would have given in.  She took advantage of her guards' preoccupation; with a violent heave, she pulled away from the two still holding her and ran for the Marauder.  There were shouts behind her and feet pounding in pursuit, but as Aeryn ducked under the hull, making for the open drop hatch, she heard the ship's weapons fire.  Glancing back, she saw that the shots had only struck the ground, harming no one, but had brought the cops to a sudden and paralyzed stop.   
  
Aeryn turned away and leaped into the ship.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
John sat quietly, watching the starfield darken from indigo to black on the viewscreen as he pushed the Marauder up out of the atmosphere.  His eyes itched and a quiet pounding had begun to reverberate behind his eyes, but he kept his hands as steady as he could on the controls.   
  
The soft tread of a boot out in the corridor betrayed Aeryn's quiet approach, but John didn't turn or speak.   
  
"What's our status?" she asked, coming up to stand just behind his right shoulder.   
  
"We've left the planet's atmosphere, no sign of pursuit.  I haven't set a course, since I have no clue where we are or where we're going.  And I regret to inform you that your pilot is currently flying under the influence."  
  
He heard a touch of humor in her voice as she replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.  "Then perhaps my pilot should remove himself from duty and get cleaned up."  
  
"Aye-aye, sir," he quipped with a jaunty sailor's salute as he stumbled away from the helm.  With every step towards the door, however, his jocular mood faded and the former pensiveness returned.  His pace slowed, and finally, at the door, he stopped and put a hand against the wall.  "Aeryn?" he called back.  He didn't turn, didn't look at her, just kept gazing out into the dark, cramped hallway. He didn't know quite what to say, after the harsh words he'd spoken back in the bar.  
  
"By the way, Crichton,” she asked, “how did you know I needed rescuing?"  
  
He almost laughed.  Trust Officer Aeryn Sun not to frell around with the emotional dren.  "I overheard something about an alien under arrest while I was at the bar.  Some guy by the name of Roman or something, talking about how this alien might be 'useful' to him.  I came to the Marauder to check, and figured it was you when I found it still parked there."  
  
"I'm surprised you didn't take off without me; it would have been the perfect solution for you."  
  
John gazed shamefacedly down at his feet.  "Have to admit I thought about it.  Even got about halfway through powering this baby up for liftoff."  
  
"What changed your mind?"  
  
"My parents left me with a legacy that can be damned inconvenient at times.  Morals and scruples.  A conscience.  I just couldn't leave you in the lurch.  
  
"I used the surveillance equipment on this bird to scan for news about you, transmissions and such.  You guys have some spiffy stuff that the CIA would kill for.  With a little work and a lot of luck, I managed to hook into this Roman's personal comm signal, and heard him giving final instructions to set you up.  He'd killed some guy and needed you to take the fall for it.  I tracked your location through the comms he was transmitting to."  
  
"Good work," was her clipped, professional response.  He almost turned and walked away, then remembered the subject he'd been about to broach when she interrupted him.  
  
"Aeryn, I...I'm sorry about what I said, back at the bar.  I don't want you to think I'm not grateful to you, for getting me off that base.  I guess...the truth is, I was scared.  Still am."  He glanced over his shoulder at the silence that followed.  
  
Aeryn was half turned towards the door, watching him with a steady gaze and an expression he couldn't quite interpret on her face. It wasn't judgmental, which surprised him; he'd expected that confession to be met with open derision from the Peacekeeper hard-line.  
  
After a pause, Aeryn turned all the way around to face him.  "Captain Crais will be able to protect you from Scorpius," she tried to assure him.  
  
The mention of the half-breed's name evoked a shudder, and John felt compelled to ask the question that had been plaguing his mind since he first laid eyes on the creature.  "Why the hell is there a Scarran in the Peacekeepers, Aeryn?  I thought the Scarrans were public enemy number one."  
  
Her mouth quirked up on one side and she replied, "I imagine for the same reason there's an inferior human in the Peacekeepers."  
  
He winced.  "Touché."  
  
"Scorpius must have done or offered something that High Command deemed sufficient to waive the purity regulations.  And he is half Sebacean, remember."  
  
"Could've fooled me," John muttered under his breath.  
  
"Scorpius has a lot of power, Crichton, but a captain has absolute authority on his own ship.  On the carrier, Crais could keep Scorpius away from you indefinitely.  Only High Command could countermand him."   
  
John ducked his head, looking away from her.  "I know that.  It's not really Scorpius that scares me."  
  
There was a doubtful snort from behind him, and he turned to give the woman a mock glare.  "All right, then, it's not _just_ Scorpy."  
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
He clenched his eyes shut and forced himself to speak the name he hadn't uttered aloud more than once or twice since her death.  "Gilina."  
  
Aeryn's eyebrows drew together in puzzlement.  "John," she said tentatively.  "She's dead."  
  
"That's the point."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
John sighed.  "I wouldn't expect you to."  He felt tears welling up and turned away, staring back into the corridor as his vision blurred.  "I loved her, Aeryn.  I loved her and I loved the child she was carrying.  Our child."  He heard a soft indrawn breath of surprise, but continued on.  "They're both gone and it's my fault and I don't want to go back and face her friends...work in that lab...without her there.  It hurts so much already.  Facing all those memories...that's what scares me."  
  
Aeryn's response, a dozen or more microts later, was quiet and surprising.  "If you'd really rather be alone than with friends, I'll find a place to drop you off.  Someplace better than that drenhole we just blasted out of."  
  
_Rather be alone...._  
  
John's mind was whirled back almost five years, recalling a cloudy, blustery day when he'd sat on the dock at Sawyer's Mill with the entire contents of his liquor cabinet lined up next to him, getting drunk in alphabetical order.  
  
_He'd run away after the service, unable to look his father or his sisters in the eye, afraid to see the accusations he knew would be lurking there.  
  
The ringing ta-tap, ta-tap of a woman's high-heeled steps on the wooden planks had announced a visitor.  
  
"Go 'way, Livvy," he'd mumbled, somehow knowing it would be her.  Though four years his junior, she'd always known him better than anyone else in the family.  She ignored his words and sat down on the edge of the dock next to him.  They made an odd picture, the two of them: a man in a dark suit and a woman in a black dress, sitting by a lake with their dress shoes dangling inches above the water, bottles and cans scattered around them.  
  
"Will you come home?" she'd asked simply.  
  
John had taken a last swig of the bourbon--he'd long since finished the beer--and moved on to the letter G for gin.  "Can't."  
  
"Can you tell me why?"  
  
"Y'know why."  
  
"Explain it to me," she insisted.  
  
"I let her down."  
  
"Who?  Mom?  This is because of that last night in the hospital?  The night she--"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You loved her, Johnny.  We all understand that.  She understood, too.  You didn't let her down.  Let me take you home."  
  
He just shook his head mutely.  
  
"Is it really easier sitting out here all alone, with no one to talk to, no one who understands what you're feeling?  We're a family, John.  We need to be together, help each other through this."  
_  
She'd been right, of course.  Livvy Crichton usually was.  His grief had festered in solitude, and the memories he had tried to avoid still plagued him to this day.  
  
Turning around, heedless of the tears on his face, he saw that Aeryn was once again consumed with her piloting, probably trying to find a place to leave him, because she thought that was what he wanted.  He looked at her, and remembered the good times they'd had, the four of them together in the lounge, talking combat and science and football, turning the established Peacekeeper social order on its head every time they laughed together.  Suddenly, the thought of never seeing any of them again hit him like a blast of cold water.   
  
He'd lost his lover, and his child.  Leaving wouldn't change that, but it would cost him the only other friends he had on this side of the universe.  Facing his fears, as Stark had tried to tell him, might be the only way to avoid repeating the mistakes of the past.  
  
"Aeryn," he said suddenly, decisively.  "Don't.  I'd like to come back with you, if that's okay."  
  
She turned around.  Seeing his damp cheeks, she showed no reaction.  "Why the sudden change?"  
  
"You were right.  It seems that women on both sides of the universe are always smarter than me.  I can't control what Scorpius will or won't do; either choice is a risk.  But all else being equal, I'd rather be with friends than be alone.  Thanks for reminding me of that."  
  
With that, he turned and headed aft for a long overdue shower.


	2. An Offer You Can't Refuse, part 1

_"Trust them to send me back-up and not tell me.... " -- Jenavian Chatto_  
  
  
  
Aeryn could hear Senior Officer Aqida somewhere in the background, requesting permission to dock and calling for med techs to meet them.  Carefully guiding the Marauder through the traffic around the command carrier, following the landing beacons, she slipped them into the main hangar bay.  Once inside, she compensated as well as she could for the damaged treblin-side thruster and set the ship on the deck gently, with just a slight wobble before all three points touched down.  Aeryn heaved a silent sigh of relief and immediately started procedures for a full shutdown.  
  
"Good work, Sun."  Aqida's brisk words rose over the engine sounds dying away to silence.  
  
"Sir," she acknowledged noncommittally.  
  
"When you finish here, go have the med techs take a look at your arm."  
  
Aeryn turned to protest, but her superior silenced her with a raised finger. "That's an order, Officer," he instructed.  "I need my crew in top condition; foolish pride wins us no battles."  
  
"Aye, sir," she consented reluctantly.  There was really no need, as far as she was concerned.  It was barely a scratch.  
  
By the time she'd finished powering all of the ship's systems down and let her gear bag fall from the drop hatch, Aqida and Sub-officer Leyn, her two remaining uninjured team members, had long since departed for their quarters.  
  
She jumped down to the deck and grabbed her bag.  Ducking under the bow of the ship, she straightened up and nearly flinched, finding herself suddenly nose to nose with a familiar face.  
  
"Tau-- I mean Lt. Crais," she greeted, modifying her address in mid-sentence due to the public setting.  "What are you doing here?"  
  
Crais allowed himself a small smile.  "We picked up your approach on our scans just as I was getting off-duty, Officer Sun.  I decided to come down and welcome you back aboard.  I take it the mission was a success?"  
  
"Yes, sir," she replied proudly.  This had been her first 'real' assignment since joining the Marauder squadrons, her past cycle having been spent primarily in intensive training and simple transport errands that went horribly awry.  Her tales of those frelled-up missions--heavily edited, of course--had amused her compatriots to no end during the journey they'd just completed.  They'd all bemoaned that their probationary assignments hadn't been half as interesting.  
  
She and Crais started walking slowly, circling the Marauder as Aeryn completed her final exterior inspection of the craft.  "Anything interesting happen while we were away?" she asked, craning her neck to view the damaged thruster.  _Careless flying there, Sun_ , she berated herself, noting how close the enemy fighter's shot had come to rupturing the cesium lines.  
  
"No," Crais responded petulantly.  "Nothing interesting _ever_ happens out here in the far reaches.  I hope we get a rotation to a patrol with some action soon; everyone is getting tired of nothing but training and drills."  
  
Aeryn finished her circuit, noting a few more minor damages, then turned to Crais.  "And...how is Crichton?"  Tauvo had agreed to keep an eye on the human for her; he had them both concerned.  
  
"No better," Tauvo sighed, shaking his head.  
  
Aeryn nodded.  
  
Tauvo shrugged helplessly.  "I assume the Aurora chair did some lasting damage, but he refuses to submit to a medical scan without a direct order.  And so far he's done nothing to warrant that.  In any other soldier, his behavior wouldn't even be noteworthy, but for Crichton...."  
  
"Silence and solitude just aren't normal," Aeryn finished the thought with a nod.  She suspected the chair actually had relatively little to do with it; John's wounds were more emotional than physical.  
  
It had been almost a quarter cycle now since they'd returned from the gammak base.  She had seen _some_ improvement since those first days, at least; he'd stopped getting into drunken brawls, for one thing, and now spent most of his time working, alone in his tiny lab.  
  
Aeryn was pretty sure she was the only one who had learned the full extent of Crichton's prior relationship with Gilina Renaez, especially the part about the child.  As far as she knew, John had told no one else that secret--not even Tauvo, with whom he otherwise seemed to share almost everything.  Aeryn wasn't even entirely sure John remembered telling _her_.  
  
Vaguely, distantly, Aeryn thought she understood a little of what Crichton was going through.  She'd had a mother once, after all, for an arn or so one night in the cadet barracks.  She'd spent her whole life since feeling slightly incomplete, always half-searching for something that was missing, looking for that one face in every crowd.  She remembered the pain and fear in Xhalax Sun's eyes that night, and understood that this was what it meant to be a Peacekeeper and a mother--to have a child one would never see, never know.  It was part of the reason she'd vowed so long ago not to have a child herself.  Crichton's pain at the loss of his own child and lover only further reinforced that determination.  Better to concentrate on her career and avoid the pain.  
  
As she and Tauvo walked across the crowded deck in companionable silence, Aeryn tried to think of something that might help break the human out of his cycle of depression.  Short of conjuring up a wormhole and sending him home, though, nothing immediately came to mind.  
  
The roar of an engine overhead drew her eyes upwards, along with the attention of every soldier and tech nearby.  A flag courier, compact and streamlined, glided effortlessly into the hangar and settled into a parking space close to the interior access ports.  It was an unusual sight.  The couriers were some of the fastest vessels in the Peacekeeper fleet, used primarily to communicate extremely sensitive orders or to convey flag officers rapidly across the expanse of Peacekeeper space.  There were none in their convoy, and Aeryn hadn't laid eyes on one in cycles.  
  
She turned a questioning glance at Tauvo, expecting him to know something of this new arrival.  His brother was the captain, after all, and often told Tauvo secrets he wouldn't even reveal to Lt. Teeg.  
  
The younger Crais, however, met her look with a helpless shrug.  "Bialar didn't mention anything about expecting guests."  
  
They stood together, watching, as the new arrivals disembarked.  All through the hangar area, workers and soldiers had paused to observe and wonder, the entire area holding its collective breath in anticipation.  
  
Once the courier's loading ramp descended to the deck, four guards marched out in tandem and took up positions to either side, standing at full attention.  Then, microts later, an older man strode down the walkway, exuding dignity with every step.  Resplendent in the bars and badges of an admiral, he was heavyset with age and the sedentary life high rank bestowed.  
  
The guard detail fell into step behind the admiral as he walked casually to the doors and into the carrier proper.  Once the doors rolled shut behind the procession, the personnel on the deck slowly started moving again.  Aeryn and Tauvo looked at each other.  An admiral, out here?  This was the back of beyond, an unimportant, disregarded border patrol.  Aeryn couldn't help but wonder if this new arrival presaged the excitement Lt. Crais professed to crave.  
  
"So what do you think it means?" she asked.  
  
"Not sure," the lieutenant admitted.  "Probably either something very good or very bad."  He paused, glancing at her, seeming almost nervous.  "Do you... have plans before your sleep cycle?"  
  
"No, sir..."  
  
He glanced down at his feet, then seemed to gather his courage and looked into her eyes again.  "Would you care to--"  
  
"Actually, Officer Aqida ordered me to report to medical," she interrupted.  "It shouldn't take long.  After that...perhaps we could meet in the officers' lounge?  I could use a drink to wash the stench of battle out of my throat."  
  
An odd look flashed across Tauvo's face for a microt, then vanished into a careful, neutral expression before Aeryn could identify it.  "I will go see what I can find out about this new arrival.  I'll meet you at the hammond twelve lounge in, what, two arns?"  
  
Aeryn nodded.  "I'll see if I can pry Crichton out of that lab of his and bring him along."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Tall, narrow glass.  Lights, refracting and multiplying through the pale, blue liquid as he turned it.  Blue...like the mouth of a wormhole.  Mesmerizing.  
  
"Crichton?  John?"  A hand touched his arm, and he blinked, emerging from the trance-like state he'd fallen into.  He glanced up to see both Aeryn and Tauvo's faces looking at him, concern etched deeply into both.  
  
He chuckled dismissively.  "Sorry guys, drifted off there for a microt."  Truth was, he'd been ignoring them.  Hadn't even wanted to come in the first place, but Aeryn had insisted on celebrating her successful mission.  Then she and Tauvo had gotten embroiled in a flurry of speculation about some ship they'd seen arrive, some bigwig that even Tauvo hadn't been able to discover the identity of.  John, quite frankly, couldn't care less.  
  
Something caught his eye just then, something he hadn't noticed earlier.  Aeryn had a bandage wound around her upper arm.  "What happened there?" he asked, pointing.  
  
"What, this?  Just some fekkik with a knife, caught me off guard."  She shrugged, like it was nothing.  Just another day at the office.  
  
A cold chill raced through John's body, settling into a lump in his stomach.  He forgot, sometimes, how very dangerous were the lives his friends here led.  They were soldiers, risking themselves daily, without question.  Fighting.  Killing.  Dying.  
  
Death was so common here, so accepted, so completely disregarded.  John sometimes felt like he was the only one who knew or cared that Gilina was gone.  There'd been no memorial, no burial, no acknowledgement of her loss.  Only Aeryn seemed to share with him any sense of regret for her absence, and she hadn't been around to talk to for a while now.  
  
Compared to Aeryn and Tauvo, Gilina should have been the safest one of all.  A tech, a non-combatant.  She should have outlived John by a century or more and survived to see her five-times-great-grandchildren born.  Any of these others--Aeryn, Tauvo, the young soldiers he trained with twice a weeken in hand-to-hand or weapons techniques--could disappear from his life in an instant, with no warning.  
  
Aeryn's hand touched his arm, and John realized he'd zoned out on them again.  He gave a self-deprecating half-smile and sipped some fellip nectar.  
  
"How goes your project, Crichton?" Tauvo asked.  "You've certainly been working hard on it."  
  
He almost laughed.  "Yeah, working hard.  Sure."  He shook his head.  "Running around in circles is more like it.  'Goin' nowhere verra fast.'"  He mimicked the proper Scottish accent for that last quote, but the joke was completely lost on this audience.  
  
"Patience, Crichton," Tauvo reassured him.  "If it was easy, everybody would be flying through wormholes."  
  
"How long did it take," Aeryn piped in, "to perfect your sling-shot theory?"  
  
"Years," John groaned.  "Cycles."  With a massive sigh, he nodded.  "Point taken, though."  
  
From that point on things flowed much better.  In an attempt to draw John into the conversation, they discussed the various training classes he had been attending, for two hours after every work shift since his return.  He was learning basic Peacekeeper skills in hand-to-hand and weapons combat, to establish and maintain his qualification for the rank he'd been granted.  He could fly Prowlers and various types of transports now, in addition to the Marauders.  
  
Much to his surprise, John had actually found himself enjoying the classes, especially the weapons training.  Though his vision was inferior to that of Sebaceans, he still managed to achieve decent marksmanship by picturing Scorpius' face on every target.  
  
Eventually, after a couple of entertaining arns, Aeryn took her leave of them, citing fatigue from the mission she'd so recently completed.  Not long thereafter, Tauvo too bid Crichton a good night and headed for his quarters.  
  
After his friends left, John sat for a while just enjoying his drink and relishing the memory of the first enjoyable evening he'd had in a very long time.  This was why he'd agreed to come back, why he endured the uniform and the rules and the disdainful looks.  
  
The looks, at least, had diminished since his return, though not due to any change in Peacekeeper prejudices.  This new uniform he wore, as uncomfortable as it made him, was the perfect camouflage, allowing him to blend into the crowds.  Just another Peacekeeper in a cast of thousands, too low ranking to be worthy of notice.  Most didn't look past the uniform, and only a few of the harder cases among the crew actually remembered his face.  These days he could wander the hallways and linger in the habitat recreations in relative safety. He'd spent many a sleepless night since the Chair doing just that.  
  
Just as he was about to get up and get himself one last drink, John saw a familiar figure approaching with two glasses in her hands.  
  
"Hello, Crichton," she greeted, holding one of them out.  "Have a drink with me?"  
  
John hesitated, then took the proffered glass.  This was a first.  "Sure, Betal," he said tentatively.  "If you're sure you want to be seen socializing with an inferior species."  
  
The dark-haired tech sat down, waving away that concern with forced nonchalance.  "You're a Peacekeeper now, Crichton.  One of us.  If you're good enough for High Command, you ought to be good enough for everyone."  
  
It wasn't the highest praise John had ever received from a woman, but it was better than what he usually got around here.  When she'd first been assigned to his wormhole team over a cycle ago, Betal had barely been able to work in the same room with him without squirming. That she now sat willingly within just a few feet of him sharing a drink was something of a miracle.  
  
They weren't even working together anymore, which made this even stranger.  The entire wormhole research team had been reassigned to other duties when he and Gilina had left for the gammak base, and at John's request hadn't been returned to the project when he got back.  He hadn't wanted to face them, hadn't thought he could handle working with them again day in and day out.  It wasn't that he hadn't liked them--their barely civil forced tolerance from the first few monens had eventually given way to grudging respect--he just hadn't wanted to face the memories.  It was easier to work alone than to be surrounded by five familiar faces, constantly looking for the missing sixth.  
  
He hadn't seen any of them since getting back.  This was the first time one of them had sought him out, and John wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation.  One thing, however, kept him seated, kept him from making his excuses and fleeing: Gilina had once mentioned Betal as the closest thing she'd ever had to a friend.  It was a connection, however faint, that he couldn't ignore.  
  
Nervously, John took a large gulp of his new drink, downing half of it in one shot.  "So, what's on your mind?" he asked.  She probably wanted to know about the wormhole project, wondering why she and her fellow techs had been excluded.  John hoped he could come up with some believable explanation that wouldn't bruise her pride, without actually having to tell her the truth.  
  
The tech seemed at least as nervous as he was, gripping her glass with two hands and staring into its depths as if for inspiration.  "I've wanted to talk to you, Crichton.  I wanted to ask you...about Gilina.  About what happened."  
  
_Oh God_.  John's mouth went instantly dry.  This was every one of his fears realized, a subject he'd been avoiding even thinking about, much less discussing.  Every instinct screamed at him to run, hide, avoid, but he was frozen to his chair like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding semi.  
  
"I don't know if she ever mentioned it," Betal continued, oblivious to John's distress, "but Gilina and I had known each other since I was recruited at four cycles.  We were crèche mates.  I know she died, but no one wants to talk about her, tell me how or why.  I know...I mean, I could tell...you two were close.  She was different around you.  Will you tell me?"  
  
John swallowed the rest of his drink and sighed, feeling emotions he'd kept locked away starting to rise to the surface.  He couldn't talk about this, not here, not with people around watching.  But Betal deserved an answer.  She deserved to know what her friend had died for, and at whose hands.  
  
Gesturing wordlessly, John got up from the table and the young tech followed.  He procured a few bottles of the fellip nectar from the bar--he'd need them to get through this--then led Betal out into the corridors.  
  
  
  
  
As consciousness wormed its way into John's brain the next morning, he tried to turn over and groaned.  Sitting up was a trial he never wanted to endure again, and he adamantly refused to turn up the lights, knowing what it would do to his hangover.  
  
He was worn out, limp like a wet towel, wrung out and left to mildew on the bathroom floor.  Consequent of a late night, emotional turmoil, alcohol and...well, other things.  
  
He and Betal had talked for arns, safe from prying eyes in the privacy of John's quarters.  (Mere crewmen didn't rate private rooms, but an exception had been made in his case, mostly because no one was willing to bunk with the alien.)  
  
Their conversation had been tentative at first, as each one hesitated to broach the painful topics, but eventually they got to the heart of the issue.  He'd told her almost everything: his relationship with Gilina, his capture and torture, and her death as Scorpius tried to force him to reveal something he didn't know.  The only points he held back were the plans he and Gilina had made to defect, and the baby.  
  
He'd cried, and Betal hadn't, which threw a monkey wrench into John's whole sense of gender propriety but was absolutely typical of a Peacekeeper.  He had yet to see a single one of them, even Gilina, so much as shed a tear for anything or anyone.  
  
John closed his eyes and sighed, disgusted with himself for what had followed.  
  
He could make excuses--they were both drunk, both grieving, and sex was a common response to loss.  Life, as it were, surmounting death.  And it wasn't like she'd been unwilling.  But none of that changed the fact that he'd slept with Gilina's best friend.  It felt like a betrayal of her memory.  
  
By the time John forced himself out of bed, through a cold shower, and into his uniform, he was nearly late.  No time for first meal, but his stomach wasn't ready to discuss food just yet anyway.  He staggered down the corridor to the nearest level riser, off to the lab for another pointless day of banging his head against impossible equations.  So far, the Ancients' "unconscious knowledge" wasn't guiding him anywhere.  
  
Two soldiers, anonymous behind the reflective visors of their duty helmets, were standing in the level riser when he got on.  John knew from experience that wishing them a good morning would get him nothing more than an annoyed glare, if he got any response at all.  He decided not to bother today; the silence was kinder to his pounding head.  
  
It took several microts for John to notice when the riser didn't stop at his deck.  He looked quizzically at the controls but could see nothing obvious wrong with them.  Perhaps a glitch in the system?  Before he could do more than wonder, however, the doors opened onto a different level, one of the lower ones that John had never explored.  
  
Without warning, one of the soldiers behind him grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back.  John had a sudden, horrifying flashback to his arrest on the gammak base and started to struggle, but the second man stepped in front of him and delivered a perfect Pantak jab that sent him spinning into darkness.  
  
  
  
Returning to consciousness was painful, as always, and more so due to the hangover.  Saro Abljak, his first self-defense instructor here on the carrier, had used Pantak jabs on him a number of times, always smirking afterwards about how susceptible humans were to them.  John had eventually learned to block the strike nine times out of ten, but this time he'd had no chance to fight back.  
  
He was sprawled on the floor, and the first impression he had upon opening his eyes was darkness.  Like the cell....  A cold sweat broke out along his spine as he struggled to get up.  As his eyes adjusted, he found he could distinguish bare metal walls, randomly discolored in ways he didn't want to think too closely about.  
  
There was a sound behind him, someone clearing their throat.  John turned slowly, fully expecting to see Scorpius lurking in the shadows, his nightmares come to life.  Instead he saw two men, both Sebacean, waiting calmly at the far end of the room.  One of them, an older man with thinning white hair, sat behind a simple table, while the younger man stood at parade rest behind his right shoulder, eyes fixed forward like a statue.  
  
"What the...?"  In the absence of Scorpius, John felt his fear transform into anger and indignation.  "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, stomping towards the table.  "And what was with the goon squad?"  
  
The statue man broke his stance and speared Crichton with a deadly glare.  "I would suggest, _Crewman_ Crichton, that you moderate your tone when addressing the Admiral."  
  
_Admiral?  Oh shit_....  The adrenaline-charged aggression faded quickly, and John fumbled into a more respectful stance.  _This must be the guy Aeryn and Tauvo were talking about last night_.  "My apologies, sir," he said quickly.  Now that he was closer and his eyes were adjusting to the gloom, he could see that the older man's pristine scarlet and black uniform carried a great deal more decoration than he was used to seeing here on the carrier.  
  
The admiral, for his part, frowned and harrumphed.  "As to who I am..." he rumbled.  
  
"The Admiral's identity is classified, for his own security," the lackey interjected.  He spoke the title with audible capitalization.  
  
"My position as head of Special Directorate," the older man clarified, glancing at his toady in annoyance, "would make me prime target for abduction or assassination if my identity were known.  You will address me by title only."  
  
"Special Directorate, sir?" John asked, unfamiliar with that branch.  
  
"You have heard stories, perhaps, of disruptors?"  
  
"Yes, Admiral, a little."  Aeryn and Tauvo had occasionally talked about them.  "Deep cover agents.  Spies."  
  
"Among other things," the man said cryptically.  "All Peacekeeper disruptors operate under the auspices of Special Directorate."  
  
_Frell_.  John realized with a shudder he was speaking to the director of the Peacekeeper CIA.  Or maybe the KGB was a closer parallel.  
  
The admiral leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together thoughtfully.  "I had you brought here because I wished to speak to you privately, in a secure location."  
  
"Me, sir?"  
  
"For an unclassified alien, so newly inducted into service, you are quite popular, Crewman.  High Command has received no fewer than a dozen applications for your transfer to a gammak base as a research assistant in the past quarter cycle."  
  
John swallowed, fear rising again.  "Over my dead body," he muttered under his breath, knowing who had made those requests.  
  
If the admiral heard that, he ignored it.  "So far, your Captain Crais has declined these applications, insisting that your work here on the carrier is indispensable; High Command has been honoring his refusals as a matter of course."  
  
_Thank you, Captain._  
  
"Recently, however, another request for your services was made to High Command.  Due to the importance of this petition, Command has now chosen to provisionally suspend Captain Crais' objections."  
  
_Oh, hell_.  "If I may ask, sir, who asked for me this time?"  
  
"I did.  One of our disruptors recently reported a possible crisis brewing, one which you are uniquely suited to solve.  I'm here to encourage you to volunteer for a very special mission."  
  
"Me, sir?  I'm not a disruptor.  Hell, I'm barely a Peacekeeper!"  
  
"That will be to your advantage, actually.  If we tried to give you disruptor training at this late date, it would be obvious.  It takes cycles of intensive education and practice for a disruptor to know his or her job so well that the training doesn't show.  It is a disruptor's job to blend in, to be something he's not.  You, on the other hand, can simply be what you are: a Sebacean-like alien that no one could possibly suspect of being a Peacekeeper.  That is why I chose you for this assignment."  
  
"So what is it you expect me to do?"  
  
The younger man spoke just as the admiral was opening his mouth to reply.  "That's classified, Crewman."  
  
The admiral glared at his flunky once again.  "Shut up, Tebers."  He turned to face John again.  "Crichton, you will be told what you need to know when it becomes necessary.  Until that time, recall that it is not a soldier's place to question orders."  
  
John glanced back and forth between Tebers and the Admiral, but neither was forthcoming with any more information.  "Okay, so let me get this straight...you have a situation out on some unnamed planet, your best bet for a solution is a half-trained human Peacekeeper, and you won't tell me what the mission is.  I heard you use the word 'volunteer'; I assume that means I can say no?"  
  
"You can."  
  
"Well then, sorry Charlie, but I'm not buying any today.  Get yourself another sucker."  
  
The admiral gave a dramatic sigh and sat back, shaking his head.  "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Crichton, but I'm sure Scorpius will be very pleased."  
  
John felt his stomach clench.  "Scorpius?  What the hell are you saying?"  
  
The smile this time did have humor in it, and was far more frightening.  "As I told you, High Command has suspended Captain Crais' objections to your transfer.  Since you have chosen to decline my offer, Scorpius' transfer request will be approved as a matter of course."  
  
"That's blackmail!"  
  
Now the admiral frowned.  "I am unfamiliar with the term, Crewman, but rest assured, I am quite accustomed to getting what I want.  One way or the other."  
  
John stared down at the floor, trying to squash down the rage and terror that threatened to overwhelm him.  Hell of a choice: get sent back to Scorpius, or accept the mystery prize behind door number one.  It couldn't be good.  But the question was, could it possibly be worse than Scorpius?  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
That night in the officers' lounge, Aeryn watched Crichton sit and play with his glass while they waited for Lt. Crais.  He was looking even more dejected than usual.  _Frell_ , she groused to herself.  _I thought he was starting to snap out of it last night_.  
  
"What's the matter, Crichton?"  
  
The human rubbed his fingers across his forehead, refusing to meet her gaze.  "Nothing.  I don't want to talk about it," he replied.  
  
"Which is it?  Nothing, or something you don't want to discuss?"  She got no reply, but Crichton slouched further, planting his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands.  
  
Crais arrived moments later, looking preoccupied and examining the slumped form of the human with a bemused expression.  "Crichton!" he greeted brightly, slapping him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly slam his face into the table.  "All your appendages still attached?"  
  
"Wha'?"  The response was distracted, confused, as Crichton recovered from the blow.  
  
"You met with an admiral, I hear, and first yelled at him to his face, then told him to frell off when he offered you an important assignment.  You're lucky he didn't stuff your mivonks down your throat!"  Tauvo seemed to find this endlessly amusing, but headed off for the bar to get a drink before Crichton could reply.  
  
Aeryn, for her part, was shocked.  _The admiral we saw?  What did he want with John?_   "Is that what's got you in such a blue flunk, Crichton?"  
  
Crichton's eyebrows drew together at that, followed by a real laugh this time.  Aeryn felt some of the tension fade out of him.  "It's 'funk', Aeryn.  A blue funk.  And no, I'm not upset because I told the Admiral where to stick it."  
  
"Then what _is_ the problem?"  
  
"Problem is the fat bastard turned around and made me an offer I couldn't refuse, so I caved."  
  
Aeryn frowned, impatient with yet another incomprehensible human metaphor.  "What the frell does that mean?"  
  
Crichton looked down at the table, absently tracing a small crack in the surface with one finger.  "He just made it very, very difficult for me to turn him down."  
  
"What does he want you to do?"  
  
Crichton shrugged helplessly.  "Hell if I know.  All he did was spin me some 'need to know' crap; didn't tell me a freakin' thing."  
  
Tauvo arrived back at the table at that point.  He threw a leg over the back of a chair across the table from Aeryn and sat down, setting his drink in front of him.  "I just got out of a meeting with the senior staff.  The admiral was a bit irritated at your attitude, Crichton, but I spoke up in your defense, told him I had worked with you before and had had no problems with your attitude or ideas in the past."  
  
"And what did the high-and-mighty admiral have to say about that?"  
  
"He decided to put me in command of the transport for the mission."  Crais smiled and took a swig of his raslak.  
  
Crichton perked up a bit.  "Hey, cool.  It'll be nice to have someone to talk to.  We taking a Marauder, or does Admiral 'M' rate something bigger, like a Vigilante or the Intruder?"  
  
"Actually, Crichton, it won't be any of those.  According to the admiral, we're heading out to the Breakaway Colonies, and they are notoriously hostile to Peacekeepers.  We'd be stopped at the border, and if we tried to cross in anything less than a command carrier, they'd very likely blast us to Hezmana.  So we're going to be flying something a bit less conspicuous."  
  
John blinked.  "Wow, you got more information out of him than I did.  Breakaway Colonies, huh?  I've never heard of them."  
  
"They're a small but powerful group of Sebacean worlds, well outside Peacekeeper space in the Uncharteds.  They're descended from a group that defected nearly two thousand cycles ago, due to philosophical differences."  
  
John's forehead furrowed as he seemed to reconstruct a memory.  "Wait... there was a revolution, right?  I remember... somebody... telling me about that.  It was all because they objected to the Peacekeeper conscription of children, back when the population was declining because of some genetic tinkering."  
  
"I suppose," Tauvo said, waving away the insignificant historical details.  "We'll be traveling undercover, as a trading vessel.  Out of uniform, little or no weaponry.  I wasn't told _why_ we are going, just that we are going."  
  
Aeryn was sorry to hear that both men would be leaving on this mysterious mission.  It would be very quiet around here without them.  "When do you leave?" she asked.  
  
Tauvo counted off points on his fingers.  "It'll take a few days to ready the ship for the journey, stock it with provisions and cargo appropriate for our cover.  The admiral also wanted me to put together a small crew of commandos, just in case something goes wrong.  But once that's done, we need to leave as soon as possible.  The admiral indicated that speed was essential."  
  
Aeryn nodded, then had a sudden thought.  "My squad is down to half strength; the two who were injured will be off the duty roster for weekens.  Would three be sufficient for your crew, Lieutenant?  It would give Aqida, Leyn and I something useful to do in the interim."  
  
Tauvo's face brightened at the idea, as did Crichton's.  "Three would be perfect; great idea, Aeryn.  I'd been worried about having to break up an established team."  
  
Crichton spoke up then, too.  "God, that would be great.  With both of you along, I might just survive this whole fiasco."  
  
"I will draft orders for all of you in the morning," Tauvo assured Aeryn.  
  
"Tauvo," John wondered, "did you learn anything else about this stupid mission?  All I got out of the admiral and his flunky was a bunch of 'classified' bullshit."  
  
"It was much the same in the meeting I attended, Crichton, but it's not unusual.  I cannot fathom what this admiral would possibly want with you, though.  He came a very long way just to speak to you, and he said he'd be traveling with us when we go, so whatever it is must be important.  Has High Command taken an interest in your wormholes or something?"  
  
John shook his head.  "Not that I know of."  
  
Aeryn shrugged philosophically.  "Senior officers are not known for explaining themselves to mere soldiers.  We follow orders.  We don't ask questions."  
  
"Well, I'd hate to screw up a perfectly good secret mission with something silly like knowing what the hell is going on," John growled sarcastically.  
  
Tauvo frowned.  "Crichton--"  
  
John waved him off.  "Look, let's just drop it, okay?  I'm tired of thinking about it."  He pulled a small tactical simulator out from under his chair and placed it on the table.  "How about a game, Tauvo?  Whupping you into the astroturf would really help cheer me up."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
John stood on the command deck of the transport, watching the screen for some sign of the ship they'd be taking to the Colonies.  Tauvo had been close-mouthed and somewhat smug in keeping the details secret, saying only that John would understand when they arrived.  
  
Aeryn and her diminished Marauder crew were seated in the rear compartment, looking completely uncomfortable in the semi-civilian clothing the Admiral had ordered them all to wear.  They weren't happy to be going on a mission without their Marauder, either.  
  
John, for his part, was feeling more comfortable than he had in a very long time, dressed in the IASA clothing he'd worn on his trip through the wormhole in the _Farscape_.  The khaki and white set him apart from the rest, who still mostly stuck with a color scheme of black on black despite their lack of uniforms.  
  
The transport swung out, away from the carrier, and swooped down towards the small cluster of captive Leviathans that congregated nearby.  John looked closer, expecting to see some smaller ship concealed within the herd, but it soon became apparent that they were approaching one of the gigantic living ships instead.  One he recognized.  
  
He turned to the lieutenant, who was watching John's reaction with a smirk on his face.  "What was it you said?  'Less conspicuous'?  What the hell is inconspicuous about a Leviathan, Tauvo?"  
  
"Who would ever suspect us of being Peacekeepers when we arrive in a ship with no weapons and no control collar?"  
  
John had his finger raised, prepared to give a scathing retort, but the argument died on his lips.  "Good point," he finally said.  
  
"That's why I suggested Moya.  Lt. Larell has worked hard, helping her recover from NamTar's memory wipe.  Larell decided that replacing the control collar would cause more damage to the ship's neural systems right now, but she doesn't remember how to starburst anyway and doesn't seem inclined to run.  She's perfect for this mission."  
  
"It's good that you've been taking care of her."  
  
The transport slipped into the Leviathan's hangar, guided by the docking web in an eerie repetition of John's first day over the rainbow.  It was nice to see that evidence of Moya's recovery; last time he'd been aboard, almost nothing had been working.  
  
When they disembarked and filed through the massive bay doors, Tauvo found himself confronted by an irate Delvian.  "Lieutenant!" she snapped without preamble, marching gracefully up to him.  "I strongly object to this!  Moya is in no condition to be taken into a dangerous situation.  She cannot yet starburst and would have no defense if the ship were threatened."  
  
Tauvo crossed his arms and glared at the blue woman.  "You forget your position here, Priest," he growled.  "The fact that you are here, and not confined to a cell, is a privilege that could easily be revoked.  As for Moya, she is fit to travel according to Lt. Larell and will be in no more danger on this journey than she has been in the company of a Peacekeeper battlegroup.  We're going, whether you approve or not.  Let us pass."  
  
Zhaan glared daggers, but after a moment she stepped aside.  Tauvo led the group past, marching purposefully into the corridors beyond the maintenance bay without a backward glance, the commandos following smartly along.  John couldn't help but look back, and he caught a glimpse of the Delvian priestess passing her hands prayerfully over her hairless scalp.  He hoped, for the ship's sake, that her fears would prove groundless.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Thirty solar days into their journey and Aeryn was growing ever more frustrated with John.  And with herself.  
  
There were times, like this morning, when John seemed almost back to normal, complete with endless chatter and incomprehensible jokes.  But then, often in the middle of a conversation, his eyes would lose focus and darken, his attention waver, and his good mood would vanish like water boiling away in a vacuum.  She couldn't tell if this was John still grieving for Gilina or if it was something new.  
  
It was happening again now.  They'd been sitting together in the Leviathan's center chamber, sharing first meal and enjoying a pleasant conversation.  But now, suddenly, John was tense, silent, staring at the window out into space.  
  
She wanted to do...something.  Say something.  Frell her sideways, this strange man who called her friend was in pain and she wanted to _help_.  But she had no clue how.  It wasn't part of her training.  
  
John seemed to rouse from his fugue after a few microts to notice where he was.  With a terse, barely audible apology, he got to his feet and drifted out into the hallways, his half eaten meal still sitting on the table.  
  
Aeryn sighed as she watched him go.  
  
A flicker of movement caught her eye and Aeryn turned.  The Delvian priest was standing in the doorway that Crichton had just passed through, her gaze following the slouched figure as it turned a corner.  "He is disturbed by something.  I sense a darkness to his spirit that was not there the last time we met."  
  
Aeryn shrugged uncomfortably.  "I suppose."  
  
Piercing blue eyes turned to gaze at her, boring deep until Aeryn had to turn away.  
  
"You care for him, don't you my dear?"  More than a question, the Delvian's tone conveyed both wonder and outright shock.  
  
"He is a valued comrade.  A friend."  
  
The priest just gave her a knowing smile as she glided in and sat down near her.  "If you say so, child.  Do you know what it is that troubles him so?"  
  
Aeryn sighed and shook her head.  "It could be anything, or everything.  Or nothing.  The past few monens have been...difficult for him.  A woman he cared for was killed.  I thought he was getting better, but ever since we started out on this mission, he's been acting oddly.  More so than usual."  
  
"Perhaps it is the mission itself which disturbs him," Zhaan suggested.  "Pilot has told me more about his efforts to help Moya and Lt. Crais at NamTar's station.  He is a compassionate being, and--no insult intended--Peacekeepers are not known for that trait."  
  
A cycle ago, Aeryn might indeed have taken offense at that remark.  Not because it wasn't true, but at the implication that there was anything wrong with it.  But now.... The monens she'd spent in the Territories with John and Gilina--alone in the Marauder, on the false Earth, on Sykar--had given her a unique perspective.  
  
She just shook her head; it wasn't relevant.  "I doubt it.  None of us has been told yet what the mission is.  He's just been...distracted lately.  I went to the maintenance bay yesterday and heard him talking to someone.  Arguing.  But when I went in, there was no one there but Crichton.  I don't think he's sleeping well, either."  
  
"I would offer my assistance to him if I could," the priest mused.  "But he would not likely accept it; he does not know me, and so would not easily trust me.  He might, however, accept it from you."  
  
Aeryn glared at the woman, who was far too perceptive for her comfort.  She clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to give away any more than she already, apparently, had.  
  
"There is nothing shameful in wanting to help a friend, my dear," she assured her, perhaps taking her silence for reluctance.  
  
Aeryn leapt to her feet and started to storm out of the room.  _How dare she?_   As she reached the door, however, her steps faltered.  Leaning one hand against the door frame, she gazed down the empty corridor where John had so recently disappeared.  
  
"I am not ashamed," she insisted.  It was true, though all her Peacekeeper training insisted that what she was feeling was wrong.  "I just don't know...."  
  
"Of course," the Delvian mused, as if all were suddenly clear.  "No one has ever shown you compassion, so how would you know how to offer it?"  
  
_Crichton has_ , Aeryn realized, remembering her injury on the _Zelbinion_ , and Crichton's insistence that she could live and be more in spite of it.  His careful silence about her actions on Sykar.  His insane insistence on rescuing Tauvo--and then her--from NamTar's sadistic experiments.  
  
"If you would like my advice, child--"  
  
"I am not your child," Aeryn snapped, suddenly disgusted with herself and this whole conversation.  "I do not need advice from anyone, and especially not from a religious zealot from an inferior species!"  
  
She stormed out and marched down the corridor without another word.  She was being weak, like a four-cycle recruit missing her mommy, and this prisoner was going to lose all respect for Peacekeeper discipline if she didn't get herself under control.  She'd find a way to help Crichton, whether the infuriating man wanted it or not, and she'd do it herself.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
"So you actually understand what he's doing?" John asked Tauvo in wonder, watching the dizzying spectacle of Pilot's four arms tracking every system on Moya.  That the huge creature could monitor the entire ship and all of her functions and still carry on an intelligent conversation at the same time was simply mind-boggling.  They'd been in transit now for over three monens, and John still hadn't tired of coming here to talk to Pilot.  This was the first time he'd talked Tauvo into joining him, though, and it was proving to be the most interesting trip yet.  
  
Tauvo Crais, standing on the opposite side of the console, nodded slightly.  "I don't know why; I've been aboard Leviathans before, but never sensed anything like this.  I know the sequences, what each panel does and in what order."  
  
"Maybe it's a remnant of what NamTar did to you.  An echo from Pilot's DNA or something."  
  
Tauvo's head jerked up and his eyes narrowed.  "Don't ever even suggest that!  You know the rules on contamination; I was lucky to escape with my life when it happened."  
  
John swallowed nervously and backed off a step.  "Hey, back off Bro, I didn't mean anything by it!"  
  
Pilot looked up, his eyes bulging slightly as he gazed at the Peacekeeper who was standing far too close for comfort.  "I, too, find the concept...disturbing, Lieutenant.  It was an unpleasant experience for myself, as well as for Moya."  
  
Tauvo simply nodded dismissively, still glaring at Crichton.  
  
Time for a change of subject, John decided.  "You're both doing lots better now, though, right, Pilot?  I see your arm grew back."  
  
"Very much better, thank you, Commander."  John blinked to hear Pilot use his old IASA rank.  "Moya's primary systems are nearly all restored to function.  She still lacks her memories prior to the data wipe, but most of her general data stores have been restored by transfusion from another Leviathan."  
  
Tauvo took to the change of subject readily.  "The damage was quite extensive, I'm told.  The original connection between Pilot and Moya was artificial, a forced bonding and a fairly unstable one.  NamTar's crystal damaged it, so Lt. Larell had to disconnect him completely and allow a natural bonding to occur instead, so the connections would heal and grow gradually."  
  
"The link is not yet fully complete," Pilot clarified, "but it is a relief to be free of the pain."  
  
John started to say something, but was thwarted by an exhausted yawn.  "Damn," he muttered, fatigue washing over him like a wave.  
  
"Sleepless night?" Tauvo asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
"Don't give me that look, bro.  My insomnia is entirely self-inflicted; you know these PK commando chicks won't give the poor alien the time of day."  
  
Tauvo got an odd look on his face.  "What about Officer Sun?"  There was a tone in his voice that John hadn't heard before.  
  
"Aeryn?  She's a friend, man, that's all."  There was an almost imperceptible relaxation from Tauvo, and John had a sudden thought.  "Wait a second...are you hot for the lovely Aeryn Sun, Lieutenant?"  Another subtle shift of facial muscles.  "Hah!  You are!"  
  
Crais shrugged and nodded.  "I find her...attractive, but I don't think...she doesn't seem...."  
  
"She shot you down?"  
  
"Shot me--what an interesting metaphor, Crichton.  No, I've never actually invited her to recreate; she just doesn't seem receptive."  
  
John pondered the dilemma for a moment.  "Don't know what to tell you, bro...your world's a lot different than what I'm used to.  But one thing seems to be the same on both sides of the universe--women are incomprehensible to men."  He was about to say something else, but another yawn attacked without warning.  "Damn," he muttered, rubbing his face briskly and combing his fingers back through his hair.  
  
"If you'll pardon the presumption, Commander," Pilot interjected, "Moya and I have noted your difficulty sleeping since your arrival on board.  Perhaps you should ask Pa'u Zhaan for a remedy."  
  
John tried to dismiss the concern with a wave of his hand.  "Nah, it's okay, Pilot."  
  
Tauvo, however, was not fooled, and their brief diversion was forgotten.  "Crichton, I've noticed something wrong for a while now.  If your sleep cycle is truly disturbed to the point of--"  
  
"It's nothing," John insisted sharply, cutting him off.  
  
Tauvo was silent for a moment, his gaze boring into John with furrowed brows, weighing and judging.  John nearly gave in to the urge to squirm.  
  
"Crichton," the lieutenant finally said.  "Do not forget that I am your superior officer.  You have not been acting like yourself for several monens, but I've not made an issue of it until now because it didn't seem to adversely affect your work.  As a superior officer and a fellow Peacekeeper, I have a duty to ensure that you can perform to standard."  
  
John frowned and looked away, but said nothing.  
  
"As your friend, however," Tauvo continued in a gentler tone, "I am worried about _you_."  
  
That brought him to a standstill.  Even Pilot paused briefly in surprise at the revelation before continuing the endless monitoring and adjustments.  
  
John had been in this part of the universe, among the Peacekeepers, for over a year now.  He'd been through massive culture shock at first, until he grew accustomed to the very different views these people had on life and relationships.  Peacekeeper soldiers were allowed to have 'friends', but their concept of that connection was fairly superficial.  They'd share a drink, shoot the breeze, and generally enjoy each other's company.  Even sex was casual, nothing more than a release of tension.  
  
To _care_ about someone, though....  That was not just unusual, it was against quite a number of regulations.  It happened--Gilina had been proof of that, and John suspected Aeryn had made the leap, to an extent--but Lt. Crais had just crossed a serious line with that last statement.  
  
"Tauvo," John said quietly, matching the implied intimacy.  "It's not any one thing, and I'm handling it.  Maybe I will talk to the priest lady, see if she's got any Nyquil.  That stuff'll knock out a Marine platoon."  
  
Tauvo looked puzzled for a microt, as the odd words flowed past his microbes, but didn't look like he was going to let the subject slide. But before he could speak up again, a voice blared through the comms from Pilot's console.  It was Lt. Tebers, the admiral's pet gofer.  "Pilot," he demanded brusquely, "locate Crewman Crichton and the Delvian for me."  
  
Pilot looked up at his guest for a microt before replying.  John shrugged and nodded.  "Commander Crichton is here in the den, Lieutenant.  Pa'u Zhaan is in her chambers," Pilot reported.  
  
Without a word of acknowledgement, much less thanks, Tebers' snapped out, "Crichton, collect the Delvian and report to Command immediately.  We are about to arrive at the border."  
  
"Yes sir, Lieutenant sir!" John replied, rolling his eyes and affecting such a mocking expression that Tauvo pressed his knuckles against his lips and shook silently until Pilot closed the channel.  
  
Then he burst out laughing.  "Crichton, you are incorrigible!"  
  
"Aw, Tauvo, you say the sweetest things," John quipped back, the lightness in his tone disguising the sinking feeling in his gut.  They had arrived, and his quarter-cycle idyll was over.  Whatever the admiral had in mind for him, he'd be hip-deep in it soon.  
  
Touching the biomechanoid comms badge he'd been issued, he called out, "Hey, Pa'u Zhaan!"  
  
There was a lengthy silence, and John was just about to call again when the Delvian answered with a serene, "Yes, John?"  
  
In spite of his darkening mood, John grinned; he couldn't help it.  Three months of exposure to the Delvian priest and her habits gave him a pretty good picture of what she'd been doing to achieve that air of utter calm, and what she was probably wearing while doing it.  "Put your clothes on, Blue.  Sorry to interrupt the zen thing, but the show must go on."  
  
The silence was just as lengthy this time, and yet somehow managed to carry overtones of exasperation.  "Crichton...."  
  
"Sorry, Zhaan.  We're just about there; Admiral wants us up on Command."  For some reason, which again had not been explained.  
  
"I will meet you there."  
  
  
  
When they reached the border, both Zhaan and Pilot just about freaked at the swarm of self-tracking pulse cannons that locked Moya in a cross-targeted helix.  A surly planetary security officer commed them almost immediately, demanding to know their identity and reason for trespassing.  
  
John had done a fair bit of research on the Colonies since learning they were his destination, and so he wasn't particularly surprised; Peacekeeper intelligence reports had stated that the government here was in transition, with a new ruler due to be selected and crowned soon.  By long tradition, the Colonies closed their borders to traffic during these periods, and got a bit paranoid about their security.  
  
The admiral had only smiled when John brought that little problem to his attention.  Did he really expect these hard-line isolationists to make an exception for one lonely cargo vessel?  
  
John did his best to look busy as the admiral--in his assumed role as the representative of a small trading company--patiently talked his way past the low-echelon security and through more than a dozen levels of royal bureaucracy, seeking someone with the power to grant permission to approach.  
  
Watching the man operate, John began to see what he'd meant by the level of training disruptors received.  The man _became_ the role he played, and John truly couldn't see a trace of "the admiral" anywhere.  Still a commanding presence, which the role called for, he lost all trace of the menacing aura he'd always projected.  His manner became easy, friendly, and respectful.  He smiled often, the consummate businessman, inspiring trust.  
  
Finally, after three arns of fruitless negotiation, a harried-looking young man in white appeared on the screen, looking annoyed at the summons.  "I am Councilor Tyno.  What is your purpose here?"  
  
The 'captain' stepped forward to address this new inquiry.  "Councilor, my name is Tal Jaran.  My crew and I would like permission to approach your world and deliver the coronation gifts we were commissioned to transport."  
  
The conversation from there progressed more or less as John had expected.  Government bureaucracies seemed nearly universal, each having an apparently inexhaustible number of ways to say 'no'.  
  
As he spoke earnestly, assuring the councilor that they carried neither large weapons nor illicit cargo and merely desired peaceful trade, the admiral wandered around the bridge, stopping first to look at Zhaan's console and lay a friendly hand on her shoulder, then moving over to John in a seemingly random migration across the deck.  
  
Something changed then, and John couldn't figure out what caused it.  Without warning, Tyno suddenly became very agreeable, and soon Moya's crew not only had permission to take up orbit around the Royal Planet but also had invitations to attend a social gathering at the palace that evening.  
  
_What the hell?_   
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
"No!" Aeryn snapped, perhaps a bit too loudly, as the tenth attractive man approached her with a tiny glass bottle and a hopeful expression.  The man's eyes widened and he slunk away, tail between his legs.  
  
"Having a problem, Aeryn?"  
  
She turned, and grimaced when she saw Crais.  The lieutenant wore an amused smirk.  The two of them had accompanied the admiral and Crichton to the surface, leaving Senior Officer Aqida in charge back on Moya.  
  
"Males," she growled back.  
  
"What's the problem?  I'm quite enjoying myself."  
  
"As I said: males.  Ruled by your mivonks, the lot of you."  
  
Tauvo's grin widened.  He shrugged unrepentantly. "Probably true.  Even Crichton seems to be having a good time."  
  
Aeryn glanced over at the human, who was at that moment in the midst of kissing a woman on the far side of the room.  She shook her head; men were all alike, no matter what their species.  
  
The kiss broke.  John looked puzzled, but the woman smiled ecstatically.  Suddenly the whole room was buzzing with murmurs.  
  
"Look...the princess!"  "She's smiling!"  
  
Within microts, before Aeryn could react, Crichton was being led away, surrounded by guards.  
  
The admiral appeared at Aeryn's elbow, watching the spectacle.  "Excellent," he murmured.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
When she reached the door to the room Crichton was sequestered in, Aeryn paused to watch as he stalked back and forth, muttering angrily.  After a few moments of this, John swung around with a furious epithet and kicked the low bed frame.  
  
"Good power in the kick," Tauvo quipped from behind her, "but I don't think the furniture was offering a serious threat."  
  
John turned to glare at the both of them and didn't smile, just turned and limped over to the bench and sat down.  "Well, since I can't kick that frelling ad--"  
  
"Crichton," Aeryn interrupted, stepping into the room and holding her hand up in warning.  Surveillance of some type was a strong possibility here.  
  
"--fine, that frelling _asshole_ who calls himself captain, I have to settle for what's available."  
  
Aeryn frowned.  'Captain Jaran' had managed to get them permission to come up and check on their wayward shipmate, but nothing he or any of the palace staff said had given her a clue about what was going on.  "Crichton--" she started to ask.  
  
Hearing Tauvo clear his throat, Aeryn stopped and turned.  Crais gave her one warning look, then stepped back from the door, letting the admiral brush past him and enter.  
  
"Well, Crichton!" the old man greeted with an effusive smile.  "You seem to have stumbled into an unexpected opportunity."  
  
John, his face contorted in barely controlled rage, leapt to his feet.  "Unexpected my ass!  You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?"  
  
The old man frowned, then extracted a small instrument from a hidden pocket.  He turned a full circle, then gave a quick glance at the indicator.  "No listening devices."  He nodded and put the object away.  "Your arrival may have caught them unprepared, or perhaps your new status precludes any such intrusion.  To answer your impertinent question, yes, I did suspect this might be the result of our visit."  
  
"So this is why you dragged my ass all the way out here to the hind end of nowhere?  What the hell is so important about this?  The princess has a brother, right?  Let him inherit!"  
  
"Prince Clavor is nothing but a Scarran puppet," the admiral informed him.  "If he should take the throne, the Colonies would ally themselves with the Scarrans, against us.  We believe they are the ones who poisoned the princess."  
  
"Well, pardon my ignorance, but so frelling what?  We're a long way from Peacekeeper space here; what's it to you if these folks decide to play nice with the lizard people?"  
  
This time it was Crais who spoke.  "Crichton, the Royal Colonies are a keystone to this entire sector of the Uncharted Territories.  Their enforced neutrality has kept either side from getting a toehold here for centuries.  If they were to make an alliance, many other worlds would fall to Scarran advance, giving our enemy resources we can ill-afford for them to get."  
  
John waved off the explanation.  "You know what?  I don't care.  It's not my problem. I did not sign up to get farmed out for stud fees!"  
  
"You are a Peacekeeper."  The old man enunciated each word carefully.  "It is your duty to follow orders, to go where you are needed and do what is required, whatever the cost.  Bringing you here was our best chance to thwart the Scarrans."  
  
John's face was getting redder by the microt, and Aeryn started to fear that he'd rupture something, or go completely fahrbot and do something stupid.  
  
"I'll tell you what you can do with your 'best alternative', you bastard!  Just take a flying fuck at a rolling donut!  I won't do it!"  
  
There was no warning.  One microt John was standing toe to toe with the admiral, looming over the much shorter and older man, and the next he was moaning and nearly unconscious, sprawled on the floor. Even Aeryn, recently graduated from the advanced training given to the Marauder commandos, had barely been able to follow the admiral's attack, it was so quick and so devastating.  She was impressed, despite herself; the admiral might be old, past his prime, but he'd been a disruptor in his youth and obviously still kept up his training.  
  
The old man stood over the floundering human, arms crossed, and waited until the bleary blue eyes focused on him.  "You _will_ do as you are told, Crichton.  I don't care if you don't like it, or if something offends your delicate alien sensibilities.  You are a Peacekeeper now; you took an oath to obey your superior officers."  
  
The old man then turned and marched towards the door.  Just before leaving, however, he turned back.  "And I would also remind you that, if you choose not to cooperate, your alternate assignment is still waiting for you."  The admiral swept out at that, summoning both Crais and Sun to follow him with an imperious gesture.  After indulging in one last, lingering look at John, Aeryn hurried to catch up.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
~~  
  
~~John Crichton lay perfectly still on the large, plush bed, fingers laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling.  Despite the appearance of repose, there was nothing of peace in his eyes or his mind.  
  
_All that time I spent studying this place_ , he groused internally.  _All those times I laughed at their odd monarchy and strange customs.  Look who's laughing now...._   
  
A flicker of motion in his peripheral vision; someone was at the door.  He didn't turn to look, but he saw a flash of dark hair, hesitating just outside.  "Come on in, Aeryn," he said quietly.  "It's safe--I haven't thrown anything at anybody in close to an arn."  
  
She appeared microts later at the foot of the bed, a hint of a smirk teasing the corner of her mouth.  She probably knew he was joking; the only loose objects in the room were some small pillows, and those wouldn't be very emotionally satisfying projectiles.  
  
She sat down on the bench at the foot of the bed and gazed at him over the toes of his shoes, saying nothing.  John sighed; the woman wasn't much of a talker, but she could wield her silence like weapon, as deadly as her pulse rifle.  
  
He resisted as long as possible--talking would make everything too real--and settled on avoidance.  "So, you finally managed to ditch Attila the Hun I see."  
  
Aeryn gave him a glare, one that conveyed as clearly as speech both her confusion and her knowledge that he was evading something.  She let him get away with it for the moment, but John knew it wouldn't last.  
  
"Tauvo and I have been escorting 'Captain Jaran' around while he sought out trade opportunities with this system.  Otherwise I'd have been back sooner."  
  
"Ah."  The admiral was obviously burying himself in the part he'd given himself to play, acting the ambitious entrepreneur to the hilt.  
  
Aeryn went on.  "The captain has now retired to his chambers here in the palace for the night.  I think Tauvo went back to the party."  
  
"You should join him, enjoy yourself while you've got the chance.  After all, you could be stuck back on Moya with the rest of your crew."  
  
"I wanted to talk to you.  Crais will find his own entertainment."  
  
John's mouth quirked up at one corner.  "Hope he's careful about who he kisses."  
  
Aeryn's face got serious, and she leaned down with her elbows on her knees.  "Is that what started all this?  That woman you kissed?"  
  
"'Jaran' didn't tell you?"  
  
Aeryn shook her head mutely.  
  
John sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, then sat up on the edge of the bed.  He gave her a quick recap of the day's events:  the solemn request, the kiss that tasted sweet, and his swift removal and isolation.  "I should have known it was gonna be something like this," John groused.  "I looked the Colonies up when Tauvo told me where we were going, downloaded everything the carrier's database had.  I read the stuff over a dozen times on the trip out here.  I knew they were getting close to coronation time, and the records made it sound like something was wonky...."  
  
Aeryn shrugged.  "I only recall a little about the Breakaway Colonies, myself.  Their defection--and their survival--is one of the few great failures acknowledged in our history.  Not a subject my instructors cared to dwell on."  
  
John shook his head, bewildered.  "This monarchy has some of the weirdest inheritance laws I have ever heard of; I guess their compatibility problems make them a bit paranoid.  The princess has to have a husband, one who can give her heirs, or she can't ascend the throne.  That councilor guy, Tyno, said somebody's screwed with her DNA, so she's not compatible with anyone."  
  
"Except you."  
  
_Oh, thank you so much for reminding me_ , he though sarcastically.  Then he pounded his fist into the mattress.  "Frell!"  The outburst made Aeryn jump slightly, but she said nothing as he leapt to his feet and started pacing across the room.  "And to top it off, they're gonna turn us into statues for eighty cycles to learn the ropes. I can't...no, I won't...damn it!  Rock, me, hard place...what the hell can I do?"  He snatched up a pillow and threw it against the wall with all his strength, but he'd been right; it didn't help.  
  
Aeryn got up and grabbed him, arresting his motion.  "John," she said to his face, very deliberately, holding him by his shoulders.  
  
It worked.  The use of his name was a shock; Gilina had called him that, but most everyone else used his rank or surname.  It was a level of familiarity Aeryn didn't often descend to.  
  
With an explosive sigh, he collapsed back to sit on the bed again.  Aeryn crouched down, hands on his knees.  "You're being too emotional, Crichton.  You have to get past that, think about this rationally--"  
  
John gave a harsh laugh.  "Rationally?  Fuck rationally, Aeryn; I am not a Peacekeeper automaton.  I'm mad, and I'm scared, and I can't just turn it off."  
  
Aeryn scowled, and for a second it looked like she might stalk out in disgust.  But then she closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again she was gazing deeply into his.  "The Peacekeeper way has many flaws --you've helped me to see that--but it also has its occasional advantages.  We are trained from birth to set our emotions aside, so they won't impair our efficiency or distract us from duty.  You need to think clearly right now.  What are your options?"  
  
John just shook his head, his thoughts still whirling without direction.  The harder he tried to wrestle them under control, the wilder the swings of emotion became.  
  
Aeryn held up one finger.  "You could run.  The Barren Lands outside the city are vast and harsh; you might be able to hide there for a long time."  
  
He stared at her in amazement.  Aeryn Sun advocating desertion?  The shock alone brought his wayward thoughts to heel for a microt and he felt himself gain a small scrap of control.  "I can't believe you just suggested that," he said with an amused smirk.  
  
She didn't smile back, just shook her head.  "Neither can I.  If they caught you, you'd almost certainly be executed.  And they probably would catch you eventually.  Your other option is to simply tell the admiral 'no'.  You said yourself that High Command required you to volunteer for this, and now I understand why.  An assignment of this magnitude goes a bit beyond what is typically asked of a soldier, even a disruptor.  Disobeying orders would usually earn summary execution, too, but I heard the admiral say there was another assignment for you if you turned this one down."  
  
That reminder was like a bucket of ice water dumped over John's head.  "No, you're right, killing me would be too easy for that bastard.  He's got something much worse in mind.  Frankly, Aeryn," he said, the coldness seeping into his voice, "I'd rather get executed for desertion."  
  
"Worse?  What could possibly be--"  
  
"If I don't play ball, our beloved admiral will ship my ass off to Scorpius.  That's how he forced me to agree to this in the first place."  
  
Aeryn quirked her head sideways.  "Why didn't you tell us that from the beginning, Crichton?  I've been trying to figure out your reasons for monens!"  
  
John looked down at his feet, and felt his fact grow warm.  "I was...I guess I figured you'd think I was weak.  I didn't want to agree, but Scorpius....he scares me, Aeryn."  
  
He got to his feet again and went back to his frenetic pacing.  "God, has it really come down to this?  Choose the lesser evil -- spend the rest of my natural life here in this gilded cage, with a woman I don't even know, much less love, or go back to my worst nightmare."  
  
"Scorpius might not be as bad this time, Crichton.  You'd be a Peacekeeper officer, with rank and status to give you some protection you didn't have before."  
  
John shuddered, hugging his arms around his body, and shook his head.  "You didn't see him like I did, Aeryn.  You didn't have to watch him dissect your mind bit by bit.  You didn't see how his eyes lit up every time he found something about wormholes.  
  
"He's a monster.  He killed Gilina, shot her in cold blood, just because he suspected I might know her.  He didn't even blink.  He was _this_ close to driving me right over the edge, Aeryn.  Hell, I'm starting to think he might have--"  
  
"John," Aeryn cut in, but he didn't let her finish.  
  
"No, damn it!  I won't let them send me back so he can finish the job--anything's better than that."  He paused and looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time.  His voice became resigned, with no inflection.  "Hell, even eighty cycles as a statue would be better.  It's not like living among the Peacekeepers has been a whole lot of fun, anyway."  
  
"You've wanted to leave for a long time," said Aeryn's voice from behind him.  "Perhaps you _would_ be happier here."  
  
He turned around; Aeryn's face was carefully neutral, revealing nothing.  "Did you hear what I said about those eighty cycles as a statue?  I want to go home, Aeryn, and I can't do that if I'm stuck here as a pigeon perch!  Even if I found a way later, and assuming I'd be willing to leave behind a wife and possible children, everyone I know would be long dead by then.  At least with the Peacekeepers I stand a chance of figuring things out sooner rather than later."  
  
Aeryn's dark eyebrows drew together; she opened her mouth a few times then closed it without a sound, before she finally spoke.  "John, do you really believe that High Command will just let you go after you figure out your wormholes?  That technology has the potential to be an incredibly powerful weapon, one they wouldn't want to fall into the wrong hands.  Not even the hands of a people as primitive as yours."  
  
It was like a kick in the gut, hearing that.  So obvious, now that she'd pointed it out, he should have realized it himself from the beginning.  They'd never let him go.  Hope was slipping away, doors closing on all sides.  
  
"John," Aeryn said tentatively.  "You may have to accept that you'll never find your way back to Earth.  I would...miss you, if you stayed here, but you've never truly been comfortable among us.  Maybe the life you're being offered here would...fit you better."  
  
John couldn't find the words or the impetus to respond, adrift in a sea of bad choices and worse choices.  
  
"It's late," Aeryn finally said to break the silence.  "Get some sleep, and think about what I said."  
  
He looked up at her eyes, seeing newborn compassion lurking there, and managed to nod.  He reached up and grasped her hand in wordless thanks, and let go only reluctantly as she finally walked away.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn Sun's life had once been predictable, with one day following the next in orderly progression.  Training, drills, duty assignments and recreation, orders and regulations dictating every action and every breath.  Even battle had its rules and procedures, and was often so much like training in some ways that it was hard to remember which was which.  
  
All that had started to change a cycle and half ago, the day she encountered a strange and primitive alien in a Leviathan prison cell.  
  
Suddenly the rules that had defined her life were no longer absolute.  Comfortable certainty had given way to questions and doubts; new and strange emotions left her constantly torn between fear and confusion.  It was frightening, but she felt more alive now than she ever had in her life.  It was as if she'd been trapped in a dark room, and Crichton had opened up a crack to let in a little light.  The cracks were widening day after day as she woke from her grey existence.  
  
Every day was a struggle now, to walk the fine line between her life as a loyal Peacekeeper officer, a role she'd always been proud to fill, and the newborn self forming within.  
  
Three solar days ago, the Peacekeeper Aeryn Sun had encouraged John Crichton to follow orders and fulfill the duty he had agreed to undertake, albeit in ignorance.  She'd convinced herself that it was what was best for the Peacekeepers, and for John as well.  
  
Three days and four assassination attempts later, Aeryn Sun was seriously questioning that assumption.  
  
The newly wedded royal couple was now safely crystallized in their governance statues for the next eighty cycles.  But afterwards?  Aeryn didn't think Prince Clavor's plotting would cease just because his sister was now the acknowledged empress-elect. And in eighty cycles, Aeryn wouldn't be here to protect John as she had been doing up until now.  
  
The wedding itself had been surprisingly disturbing for Aeryn to watch.  When the empress had asked those assembled if any 'had cause to sway the will of love', Aeryn had had to bite her lip.  Love, she knew, had nothing to do with what she was witnessing.  
  
Aeryn wandered into the refreshment house attached to the palace, at loose ends and looking for something to occupy herself while they waited.  She and Tauvo would be heading back to Moya in two arns, and back to Peacekeeper space within the solar day.  
  
It would be another long and tedious journey, and all the worse for the loss of one man.  Aeryn could fill her days with duty and training with her team, but her off duty arns would be dull and monotonous without John's ready wit and incomprehensible humor.  
  
In other words, life was about to return to normal, to what it had been for all the cycles of her life before the strange human fell into her world and turned everything sideways.  
  
Stability.  Order.  Routine.  A Peacekeeper found comfort in such things; they signified that all was well and right with the world.  But Aeryn knew now that she could have more-- _be_ more--and she didn't want to go back to the past.  
  
_I don't want to lose John._   
  
It wasn't until the couple walking behind her nearly ran her down that Aeryn noticed she'd come to a complete standstill at that revelation.  
  
When had this happened?  Transfers and reassignments were an accepted fact of Peacekeeper life; this was nothing she hadn't been through a hundred times before.  So why did it feel so different?  When had John Crichton stopped being merely an intriguing companion and become such an integral part of her life that she felt diminished by his loss?  
  
Aeryn, seated alone at a table, had worked herself up to contemplating some very unlikely rescue scenarios when her thoughts were derailed by a sudden commotion from the door.  A dozen Royal Paladins, the Empress' own security force, marched briskly into the room and spread out around the perimeter.  Aeryn stiffened, sitting up straighter.  Something was wrong.  
  
One of the soldiers stepped into an open area near the center of the refreshment house and raised his voice to be heard by everyone.  "By order of Empress Novia, all public gathering places in the palace are closed until further notice.  Residents and employees of the royal household are requested to return to their homes when not on duty.  All off-world guests are ordered confined to their quarters immediately, pending an official inquiry.  Any off-worlder found wandering without escort will be placed under immediate arrest."  
  
The patrons rose in near unison and began milling towards the exits, their muttered exclamations and queries rising quickly to a roar of excited and fearful voices.  Aeryn left quickly and touched her comms once she was out of the worst of the crowd.  
  
"Captain Jaran?  This is Aeryn.  Please respond."  Their cover was still intact, so she was careful to avoid any reference to their true ranks.  
  
The admiral's voice came back through her comm badge with no delay, almost as if he'd been waiting for her call.  "Sun, report to my quarters immediately.  We have a problem."  
  
Aeryn changed course obediently, heading up another level to the quarters assigned to more important guests.  Thinking back to her earlier reflections on Crichton, she muttered to herself, "Frelling right we have a problem."  
  
The channel was still open, however, and the admiral heard the comment.  "Ah, then you've already been informed.  We will have to work together to locate Crichton's head before this entire situation spirals out of control."  
  
It took three strides for the admiral's words to sink in.  Aeryn stumbled to a halt, mouth gaping in disbelief.  "Crichton's _what?_ "  


  



	3. An Offer You Can't Refuse, part 2

_"You know, things never work out like you plan." - John Crichton_  
  
  
  
_I've heard of chemical peels, but this is ridiculous_.  
  
John had to laugh.  If he didn't, if he couldn't, he thought he might start screaming and wouldn't be able to stop.  
  
The acid lapped at his face as his decapitated head bobbed around in the vat.  Odd that something so metal-like could float, but the crystallization process hadn't changed his body's weight or density.  
  
He could hear the subtle fizzing as the acid slowly ate away at him, but couldn't feel it.  It was disturbing, like a dentist's drill inside his skull with him paralyzed under a full-body Novocain shot.  He could hear the rush of the tank's aeration bubbles and the rhythmic sounds of machinery all around him.  He could still see, too, though the view from inside the tank was a bit limited.  
  
_This is not how I imagined spending my honeymoon_.  
  
Of course, a weeken ago he hadn't imagined being married at all; it was still something of a mystery to him how he'd managed to talk himself into that.  
  
Oh, right, Scorpy.  Scorpius or Katralla...some choice.  
  
Scorpius was a specter, even all these months after the fact, lurking in John's nightmares, and blinking in and out of the corner of his eye even during the day.  Sometimes, in the dark, wakeful hours of the sleep cycle, he even thought he could hear the monster's voice.  He tried to convince himself it was just stress, the constant low-grade fear that haunted his life these days.  But lately he'd been getting worried.  
  
A Scarran half-breed, ugly as a corpse three weeks dead and with a personality to match, or a beautiful woman who was nearly as unhappy with her choices as he was.  It hadn't been a difficult decision, once he'd thought of it in those terms.  
  
As he'd gotten to know his future bride in the few days before their shotgun wedding, he'd found a sympathetic ear; they had a lot in common.  Katralla was as much a pawn in her mother's hands as John was in the admiral's, but her duty, her destiny as she saw it, was to lead her people, protect them from the horrors her brother's whims would inflict.  She was giving up the man she loved and the freedom she craved to follow that destiny.  All John had to give up was his hope.  
  
So he'd proposed, and the princess had accepted.  And if her smile had looked more like relief than joy, well, that was understandable.  John's own expression had been more like resignation.  
  
But when Katralla had shown him the image, as real and as tangible as life, of what their future child might someday be, that had started to change.  Seeing that tiny face, those tiny hands, John had smiled through his tears and felt his doubts fade.  He had lost a lover and a child when Gilina died.  The passage of time had only just begun to heal those wounds, but now, perhaps, he was getting a second chance.  
  
Everyone seemed overjoyed when the engagement was announced, from the empress and the admiral all the way down to the citizens on the streets below the palace walls.  Everyone, that is, except Prince Clavor and his cronies.  
  
The first assassination attempt had caught everyone by surprise, and it had seemed like pure luck that Clavor's erstwhile fiancée had happened by just in time to interrupt the attack.  He'd been in shock, reeling from the adrenaline and the after-effects of whatever kind of weapon they'd tried to use, and had only barely managed a coherent response to Jenavian Chatto's queries.  That she was the disruptor agent the admiral had mentioned in passing was less of a shock; he'd recognized some of her fighting techniques.  
   
The incident had set him off once again, to the point that he went to the admiral and threatened to back out of the entire deal.  It took another reminder of the alternative--Scorpius--and a promise of protection before he calmed down and resumed the role he'd agreed to portray.  From that moment on, until the wedding ceremony, either Tauvo or Aeryn was with John at all times.  
  
No one had mentioned anything about the attack to the empress.  To do so would have risked revealing Jenavian Chatto as a Peacekeeper disruptor.  Besides, given that the likely instigator of the attack was her own son, Novia was unlikely to take any effective action.    
  
There had been at least three more attempts on his life, all close calls but averted with his friends' help.  It was only after the wedding, when he'd stood under that frelling machine and felt his body turn to stone, that John had finally felt safe.  It hurt like hell, but for the next eighty cycles he felt like nothing could touch him.  
  
He'd fallen asleep that night in the dark and silent senate chamber--his mind still requiring rest even when his body was frozen.  When he woke, it was to a ringing sound in his ears.  He was disoriented, panicked at first because he couldn't move, but then remembered where he was.  Seeing his new brother-in-law standing inches away, shaking his hand in pain, John realized the sound that had roused him was his own crystalline structure resonating in response to Clavor's imprudent punch.  
  
Distracted by the sheer novelty of his own body ringing like a bell, John hadn't seen the Scarran ambassador stalking up behind him, and only realized something was wrong when his vision spun wildly and he found himself staring up into Clavor's ugly, smirking face.  
  
And now, here he was: his head and the consciousness contained within dissolving slowly in a powerful industrial acid, his decapitated body still standing at his wife's side somewhere up in the palace.  Clavor had said something about putting broken statues back together, but John just couldn't quite make himself believe that getting his head cut off wasn't fatal.  
  
_All the King's horses and all the King's men...._  
  
He wondered how long it would take for the acid to eat through to the delicate crystalline circuitry of his brain, and at what point the system would crash like a Windows machine under the assault.  
  
It wasn’t the dying part that bothered him so much—John had lived an exciting life full of risk, so dying of old age had never been the likeliest outcome—it was having so much time to think about it.  The dread and sheer tedium of waiting wore on him after a while, until he almost wished the whole thing would just be over and done with.  
  
The only bright point was the lack of pain, but other than that he couldn’t think of much about this situation that could get worse.  
  
On the heels of that thought came a splash and the clink of metal on metal.  He was lifted out of the acid and flung to crash and roll across the floor, so hard that he wondered if his face was dented.  
  
There was a flush of relief at the apparent rescue, which instantly transformed into horror at the sight of his rescuer.  
  
"It appears that my arrival is most fortunately timed, wouldn't you agree Crichton?" Scorpius leered as he turned John's head over in his hands, examining it.  "I just recently learned of Special Directorate's plans for you.  I will not allow them to squander the valuable information contained in your mind on such a pointless endeavor."  
  
John wasn't listening.  He wasn't even wondering how the hell Scorpy had gotten here, or how he'd found one dismembered head in the Royal Planet's biggest haystack.  He wasn't thinking at all.  
  
Paralyzing, mind-numbing terror had invaded John's consciousness the instant he saw Scorpius, and while there were none of the physical symptoms--no racing heart, no sweaty palms, no clenching gut--the fear was no less real and debilitating.  He'd had nightmares like this since the Gammak base: pinned down, paralyzed, while the monster that had come to personify evil in his mind prepared to torment him yet again.  Unable to run, unable to fight, unable to even die to escape the pain.  
  
Scorpius was going to make John disappear, and would rip his mind to shreds until he got what he wanted.  John's friends would never know what had become of him.  His family would never learn of his survival and his adventures.  Katralla would lose her throne and her hopes of having children, and the Royal Planet would someday lie in ruins due to the fawning stupidity of Clavor and the brutality of his Scarran friends.  
  
And John Crichton would live on, as a tool, a trophy, or a pet, for as long as it amused Scorpy to keep him around.  In his current state, he knew, he might well survive for centuries, though he doubted his sanity would last very long at all.  
  
He could feel it slipping away even now.  He'd been walking the ragged edge for months, between the raging grief and lingering depression due to Gilina's murder--feelings he hadn't been able to talk about with anyone--and the voices that had begun haunting his waking hours as well as his sleep.  It wouldn't take much to tip him over that last precipice.  And really, would that be so bad?  It could be his single option to escape this looming horror of reality.  
  
As he plunged into the darkness of the bag Scorpius put him in, John felt himself start to let go.  He found himself picturing a beach, with blue sky, white sand, and blue-green water.  He imagined the heat and gritty texture of the sand between his toes.  The salt smell of the ocean.  The cry of gulls.  
  
_*Stop this foolishness, John.  You cannot escape.*_  
  
It was the voice of his nightmares, trying to distract him.  It had started small, like his own conscience whispering in his ear, but it was growing louder and sounding more and more like Scorpius every day.  It was the voice that had told him to stop drinking his nights away on the carrier, and to stop provoking fights he could only lose with his more xenophobic fellow grots.  It was the voice that had urged him to get up and go to his lab every morning those last few weekens, when he had nearly given up hope of ever cracking the wormhole problem.  
  
In the last few weekens, he'd noticed, the suggestions had started to sound like orders, and had become difficult if not impossible to disregard.  It had done little to inspire John with confidence about his sanity.  But now, he found, he could ignore the voice and feel no compulsion to obey.  It jabbered on, growing more desperate and strident, but he pushed it aside and dove deeper into his own inner vision.  
  
A perfect blue sky, and a yellow sun that warmed without burning.  He was building his own perfect Earth, and all he lacked was someone to share it with.  He thought of Gilina, but couldn't seem to conjure her up.  
  
Time passed unnoticed as he painstakingly built his new world.   Eventually he heard other voices calling his name, but he ignored them.  He was safe here, and if he couldn't go home, then this would be the next best thing.  If he managed to burrow deep enough, maybe Scorpy would never find him.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn scanned the dark, dingy stairwell, panning her pulse rifle across her entire field of view as she confirmed that no one was there.  At her signal, Lt. Crais moved past her and down the stairs to the first landing.  His steps were not quite so silent as hers--he was a Prowler pilot, first and foremost, and didn't have the benefit of Aeryn's recent, rigorous training--but there was enough ambient noise at these levels that it wouldn't matter.  Pausing, he scanned the next segment before repeating her gesture, and the cycle began again.  
  
They had ventured deep into the bowels of the palace in just this manner, avoiding detection and searching for any signs of the Scarran or Prince Clavor--by far the most likely suspects in the defacement of the new Regent's statue and the theft of said statue's head.  
  
It felt good to finally have a weapon back in her hands, Aeryn realized.  The past weeken of playing a non-threatening civilian had left her with an almost subliminal itch at the back of her brain, a constant awareness that something was missing, that she was vulnerable.  
  
The weapons had arrived with the rest of her team; when the admiral sent the emergency signal to Moya, the two commandos had descended in one of Moya's pods and landed outside the city.  To avoid detection, they had used a blind spot in the Royal Planet's security grid that Jenavian Chatto had created monens before as part of her own escape route.  
  
Aqida and Leyn were searching together, much as Aeryn and Tauvo were, in another part of the palace's warren of sublevels and service corridors.  In spite of the dire warnings given to off-world visitors, avoiding the Empress' security was quite easy; they were quite fully occupied with the investigation they were mis-conducting and didn't have personnel to spare on patrols of the lesser corridors.  It was hardly their fault, though, that the Empress refused to let them consider the most likely suspect, her own son.  
  
At the bottom of the stairs, Aeryn and Tauvo took up positions at the closed door.  At a nod from Aeryn, who was crouched low to one side, Tauvo pushed the access door open quickly.  She spun into the opening, her weapon leading the way as she scanned for targets, while Tauvo stood above her with his own rifle pointed over her shoulder in the other direction.  
  
There was no one visible, but Aeryn flinched at the blast of heat and noise that hit them full in the face.  An overpowering stench of lubricants and chemicals permeated the stifling air.  
  
Five levels below ground, this was the industrial underbelly of the palace.  Furnaces, acid tanks, and a variety of less identifiable equipment filled the area.  The heat alone made it seem an ideal hiding place for a Scarran on the run, though it wasn't really hot enough to be dangerous.  It couldn't be, after all; the workers were all Sebacean.  
  
Aeryn and Tauvo glanced at each other in dismay.  The area was huge, rivaling a command carrier's generator room in sheer volume, but with interior walls, dense pipe work, and heavy machinery creating abundant blind spots and hiding places.  Heavy chains and hooks used to shift materials and equipment dangled across every path, making stealthy progress nearly impossible.  If she were the Scarran, Aeryn thought, she'd have chosen this place to hide.  It was perfect.  Finding anything in this labyrinth, especially something that didn't want to be found, was going to be incredibly difficult.  
  
But they were Peacekeepers, after all, and could not allow a minor impediment like unfavorable circumstances to affect the mission.  Choosing a direction at random, they resumed their leapfrog search pattern and kept every sense primed for action.  
  
The pair of commandos had progressed less than a quarter metra when the sharp sound of an energy weapon froze them in place.  One shot, then three more in quick succession, coming from somewhere off to their left.  
  
Without need for discussion, Aeryn and Tauvo changed direction towards the sound.  They moved with greater speed now, but also with a heightened wariness.  Weapons fire indicated the existence of a real threat, but it also meant that their quarry might be distracted by some internal dispute.  
  
After a hundred microts of slow and steady progress, Aeryn heard the rattle of chains and the patter of a light, quick step on wet pavement from somewhere up ahead.  With a swift gesture, she sent both herself and Crais into swift concealment; suddenly, the terrain was to their advantage, rather than the reverse.  
  
The steps grew closer, and a shadow flitted across the floor at Aeryn's feet.  An instant before she moved out to face it, their quarry sensed something amiss and paused.  When their eyes met, it was two primed soldiers staring at each other across the barrels of loaded weapons.  Recognition was swift.  
  
"Chatto," Aeryn greeted warily, not lowering her guard.  Crais stepped out of the shadows on the other side of the disruptor, his rifle also held ready.  "What are you doing down here?"  
  
Chatto held up a cloth sack holding something large and obviously heavy.  "Retrieving our new Regent."  She unwrapped the object to show the statue's missing head.  
  
"Crichton," Aeryn breathed in recognition and relief.  John's features were still frozen in a grimace of pain, a sight that was somehow far more disturbing under these circumstances.  "Is he all right?" she asked the disruptor.  
  
"A bit of minor surface pitting--I think someone dumped him in an acid tank for a while--but the machine can compensate for that."  
  
"And you're sure this...condition...is not fatal?"  
  
Chatto nodded.  "Yes, as long as the fragments are aligned correctly, the process will rejoin them with no difficulty."  She tilted her head to one side, looking suspicious of Aeryn's atypical concern.  
  
Tauvo nodded and cleared his throat, breaking the tension between the two women.  "We should get back up to the palace, then, and reanimate Crichton, before we're caught and accused of beheading him in the first place."  
  
Aeryn managed to tear her eyes away and nodded.  The details of the retrieval could wait until John was there to join the discussion.  Chatto rewrapped her burden and the three headed back the way they had come.  The disruptor, having been resident of these halls for far longer than the rest of them, led them through some back service corridors where they only encountered a few servants.  With the prince's consort acting as their guide, they were not questioned.  
  
It wasn't until they arrived at last in the chamber where the crystallizing machine and Crichton's beheaded body were sequestered that they encountered a problem.  Aeryn went directly to the comms device that allowed the royal couple to communicate during their eighty-cycle tenure as governance statues.  
  
"Crichton?" she called, putting the device to her ear, but all she heard was silence.  
  
"Is this working?" Aeryn demanded, turning to Chatto.  
  
The disruptor checked the settings on the machine, and nodded.  "He should still be able to speak, even in this condition.  Perhaps he fell asleep?"  
  
Aeryn shook her head, dismissing the idea.  She couldn't picture anyone in John's situation being calm enough to sleep, no matter how exhausted he might be from the day's events.  She held the receiver to her ear once again, as Chatto and Crais lifted John's head into place and turned it until it nestled firmly in its original position on his neck.  "Crichton, answer me," she ordered firmly.  Still there was only silence from the comms.  More quietly, hoping he could hear even if he couldn't speak, Aeryn murmured, "John, we're going to revitalize you now.  You'll be fine."  
  
Chatto stepped back and flipped the switch; it was the previous day's ceremony in reverse this time, as the dark metal surface glowed and faded into fair skin, brown hair, and the rose and red of his wedding outfit.  Within microts, the human stood before them whole and living again.  
  
For a moment there was no movement, his body still held by the induced rigor of the metallization process, showing no sign of consciousness.  Then, slowly, one muscle after another began to relax and he slumped to the floor.  
  
All three of them had been waiting for him to open his eyes; when he began to collapse, instead, Aeryn rushed forward.  She managed to catch him just in time to keep his head from hitting the ground, and gently laid him down.  She reached out and touched his face, but there was no response, not even a flicker of awareness.  The skin was warm and smooth, though, living flesh, and the pulse at his throat was fast and strong.  
  
Crais knelt down next to Aeryn and placed a hand on John's chest to feel the heartbeat for himself.  "What's wrong with him, Chatto?" he demanded over his shoulder.  
  
Completely unflustered, the disruptor retrieved a scanner from a nearby cabinet and ran it over the human's inert form.  "Physically, nothing.  The pieces meshed perfectly; there's no sign of any misalignment.  He's perfectly healthy.  I can't explain why he's not responding.  Perhaps it's a psychological aberration?  He's not Sebacean, after all, just a lesser species."  
  
Aeryn started to turn, ready to rip into the arrogant tralk, but just then John's face twitched.  She stopped and put her hand on his cheek again; Chatto could wait.  "John?" she called, searching for some further sign of life.  When nothing happened, she tried a light slap on the cheek.  "Crichton, wake up!  Snap out of it!"  
  
There was another muscle twitch, and then John's head jerked to one side, as if he was fighting off a nightmare in his sleep.  Aeryn slapped him again, harder this time.  
  
The response, however, was not what she'd expected.  Eyes still closed, John struck out blindly with both arms, catching both Aeryn and Tauvo unprepared and sending them sprawling.  "Get off me you leatherfaced son of a bitch!" he screamed, arms still flailing wildly at nothing.  
  
It took both of them to wrestle the delusional human back down as he continued to shout insults and denials at the air, fighting against some enemy only he could see.  Jena stood back, watching the proceedings with professional detachment.  When they had him pinned at last, still struggling, Aeryn tried calling one more time, her voice harsh and desperate with worry.  "John?  It's Aeryn.  You're safe.  Wake up, John.  Wake up!"  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
John didn't know how long he'd been here.  Maybe an hour, maybe a week; the beach was timeless.  Peaceful.  
  
Lonely.  
  
Perfection of sand and sky, wind and water was in his grasp.  It was Earth, but better.  No dead fish or rotting seaweed at the tide-line.  No broken shells to cut his feet.  Not a cloud in the sky, and the breeze was cool without being chilling.  But the people....  For some reason, he couldn't seem to create anything but flat, cardboard characters to share his paradise with him.  He'd conjured images of everyone he could think of, but none of them had that spark that made them real.  
  
_*John, stop this childishness.*_  
  
The voice had been whispering to him constantly, almost inaudible here in this far corner of his mind, but now it suddenly had strength again.  John felt the pull, drawing him away from his haven.  
  
"No!  Get out of my head, you freak!"  He shook his head and concentrated, holding onto the beach with every ounce of mental strength.  But suddenly, it was no longer just a voice.  
  
Black leather and pasty flesh, the monster of his nightmares invaded his sanctuary and gazed at him with eyes full of contempt.  _*You cannot escape me, Crichton.  This behavior is unacceptable.*_  
  
"Frell off, Nosferatu!  I'm not going back, and there's nothing you can do about it."  He turned away, intent on putting distance between them, but the vise-like grip of a leather glove around his throat dragged him to a halt.  
  
_*Incorrect.  You will leave this place, now!*  
_  
Despite all of John's efforts, the beach started to swirl away as if it were being sucked down a drain, leaving him dizzy and disoriented and feeling a painful sense of loss.  He struck out, fighting the restraining grip.  "Get off me you leatherfaced son of a bitch!" he screamed.  
  
The half-breed vanished along with the sun and sand, but strong hands still gripped him, held him down as his vision faded into darkness.  He struggled harder, trying to escape, though to what or where he was no longer sure.  
  
"John!"  It was a different voice, now.  Familiar.  Welcome.  "You're safe!  Wake up, John.  Wake up!"  
  
Suddenly he opened his eyes--his real eyes, flesh and blood--to see the lovely Aeryn Sun looking down at him with worry creasing her forehead.  Tauvo was hunched over him on the opposite side, his own concern more shuttered but still visible.  John turned his head, and was relieved to note that it was firmly attached.  It had all just been a nightmare, then.  
  
_Thank God_.  
  
Or maybe not, if the dreams were getting so much worse...maybe he really was losing it.  
  
_No, don't think about that._  
  
The more pressing question at the moment was why he wasn't a statue anymore--or had that been part of the dream, too?--and why he was lying on the floor with his friends hovering over him.  
  
It took three tries to push a voice through the lump that was still lodged in his throat from the wedding.  "Wh...wha' happen'd?"  
  
Aeryn spoke first.  "We rescued you from the Scarran that stole your head, and brought it here to make you whole again."  
  
All right, John thought, so the beheading had been real.  He could cope with that.  "That part I remember.  Cargn and his pet prince Clavor.  Bastards.  Dumped me in the acid."  
  
Tauvo nodded.  "So we assumed.  With your testimony, though, the empress will have no choice but to act.  Once the Scarran is executed and Clavor is either imprisoned or banished--I don't expect Novia to actually have him executed, no matter what crimes he's committed--you'll be safe again."  
  
Aeryn still looked worried.  "John, when we first reanimated you, you weren't responding, and we couldn't wake you."  It wasn't a question, but it invited at least an attempt at explanation.  
  
"I guess I must have passed out in the acid tank and started hallucinating.  Sensory deprivation can do that to humans.  I had some horrible nightmares about Scorpius...."  He decided not to go into the gory details, though they were still vivid in his memory.  No need to broadcast the depths of his secret fears.  
  
But then another person spoke from somewhere out of John's line of sight.  "Scorpius?  Of course, that makes sense now...."  
  
"Jena?" John called out, recognizing the voice.  
  
Tauvo nodded, turning as the disruptor appeared over his shoulder.  "Chatto was the one who found you, Crichton, and rescued you from the Scarran."  
  
Jenavian shook her head.  "It wasn't the Scarran I found.  It was someone else, someone I didn't know.  
  
"When I went to meet the Leviathan transport outside the city, I noticed three life signs aboard when I scanned the ship, though only the two commandos were supposed to be aboard.  I didn't mention it, and neither did they, but once I had escorted them to the palace, I returned to the transport and started tracking the third life sign.  I finally caught up with him in the foundry area; he'd found Crichton's head and was apparently about to leave with it.  Since he wasn't part of my brief, I disabled him and retrieved Crichton."  
  
At their shocked stares, the disruptor just shrugged.  "It makes sense now that it was Scorpius.  I'm assuming he wasn't originally part of your complement?"  Tauvo and Aeryn shook their heads in unison.  
  
John just lay there, frozen.  
  
"He must have arrived later, then, using a stealthed ship, and convinced your team to let him aboard.  Scorpius has enough rank and a high enough clearance level that he probably ordered your commandos to allow him onto their transport and tell no one of his presence.  The admiral could have overridden those orders, but since he probably isn't aware that Scorpius is here, he'd have no reason to ask."  
  
Aeryn still had her hand on John's shoulder, so she was the first to notice when he started shaking.  She turned to see his staring, panicked eyes and her own eyes widened in concern.  
  
"No.  Nononononono..." he whispered.  "That wasn't real.  How could he be here?"  
  
Jena shrugged casually.  "I don't know, but from what little I could overhear, he seemed unusually intent on acquiring _you_ , though what you could possibly have to interest _him_...."  
  
John managed a harsh laugh as he struggled to his feet.  Aeryn reached to help him, but he shrugged her off, impatient with his own infirmity and not in the mood to accept help.  "No need to be jealous, Jena," he shot back.  "He only loves me for my mind.  You didn't happen to kill him, did you?"  
  
Jenavian raised an eyebrow at the hopeful question.  "No, it wasn't necessary.  Besides, leaving bodies lying around draws too much attention; people start looking for a killer.  Now that he's failed to retrieve you, and knows we'll be on the lookout for him, Scorpius will likely just return to Moya and depart the way he came."  
  
John was staggering across the room, using walls and tabletops to support his unsteady legs.  At that statement, though, he spun around to face Jena, flabbergasted.  "What, you think the bastard came all this way just to give up now?  You really don't know him at all, do you?"  
  
"John," Aeryn broke in, using her most soothing--or perhaps patronizing--tone.  "Once we tell the empress about what happened, she'll be able to protect you, even from Scorpius."  
  
John shook his head, almost falling over as the motion threw his balance off.  He grabbed a nearby pillar for support.  "You don't get it...Scorpius did not come all this way with the sole intention of plucking my dismembered head out of an acid bath.  He was simply taking advantage of the opportunity.  Trust me, that Scarran half-breed had a plan for getting me away from the empress.  Probably with her full cooperation."  
  
Tauvo spoke up this time.  "You are a member of the Royal family now, Crichton, and the heir to the Regent's throne.  The empress isn't about to simply hand you over to someone who asks."  
  
John leaned his head into his hands, exasperated by his companions' blindness.  Wearily, without raising his head, he spelled out his suspicions.  "What do you think the empress would do, guys, if she somehow found out we were Peacekeepers?  I'll bet you that's Scorpy's plan--blow the mission by blowing our cover, and when the empress kicks us off the planet, he'll be there to grab me.  Hell, the admiral will probably just hand me over, since I'll be of no further use to _him._ "  
  
Aeryn didn't react to John's accusation, but Tauvo and Jena were both aghast.  
  
"He wouldn't--"  
  
"No officer would ever--"  
  
"How dare you--"  
  
"Crichton, be reasonable--"  
  
They talked over each other in their rush to contradict him, to defend the honor of a fellow Peacekeeper.  As if any of their precious notions were relevant to the Scarran half-breed.  
  
"Bullshit."  John's simple reply brought the arguments to a screeching halt.  "Aeryn, you've seen Scorpius.  You know what he's capable of."  
  
She nodded.  
  
John turned back to address the doubters.  "The bastard thought nothing of killing an innocent tech to force me to tell him something I didn't know.  Hell, he'd probably have killed all six of them if that had been what it took.  Jena, you may have heard more of what Scorpy said downstairs earlier than I did, but I did get the impression that he thinks our mission here is a waste of time."  
  
The objection from Tauvo was more subdued this time.  "That may be true, Crichton.  I'm not familiar with the details of Scorpius' service record, but I know this:  he may have been high ranking enough to defy the captain and get away with it, but he would never dare challenge an admiral."  
  
John thought about that; it was a good point.  Scorpy had seemed smarter than that.  "Maybe he doesn't know the admiral's here.  Hell, I'm surprised the old boy came all the way out here personally, too.  Or maybe Scorpy's got a way to pull the strings so that the admiral can't pin anything on him when it's over.  I dunno.  All I do know is that I am outta here."  More steadily now, but still weaving slightly, John walked towards the exit without another word.  
  
He made it halfway to the door before any of them found a voice.  
  
"Crichton, where do you think you're going?" Jena demanded, stepping between him and the door.  
  
"Out," he replied tersely.  Ignoring her attempt to block the exit, John started to shove past the disruptor.  
  
She grabbed his arm in a vise grip, her fingers leaving bruises.  "Are you wavering?"  Her tone was dark, and her whole bearing coiled like a cobra with hood flared.  
  
John, however, ignored the blatant threat staring him down and laughed.  "Wavering?  Lady, I am throwing in the towel, folding my hand, and heading for the showers.  I am washing my hands of you, this planet, and this whole pathetic excuse for a life that I've been forced to swallow for the past cycle and a half.  See ya 'round; it's been real."  He broke Jena's iron grip with a textbook-perfect reverse twist and turned away.  
  
Faster than lightning, John found himself slammed up against the wall, seeing stars, with Jena's arm threatening to cut off the blood to his brain.  "If you endanger this mission," she hissed, "I will not hesitate to kill you."  
  
John didn't struggle, just gazed calmly at her sharp-featured face.  "Still better...than Scorpy," he managed to rasp out past the weight on his throat.  His eyes didn't waver from hers, even when she increased the pressure.  
  
Aeryn appeared at Jena's elbow at that point and yanked her away.  John sagged against the wall and sucked in huge breaths.  
  
"He's going to frell the entire mission!" the disruptor protested, turning to Aeryn with fists clenched.  
  
"He _is_ the mission."  That simple statement brought Jena to a brief standstill.  
  
Aeryn turned to John.  "Where do you think you can go?"  
  
"Somewhere else.  The Barren Lands, maybe.  Steal a ship.  Doesn't matter."  He turned back to the door and stumbled through.  
  
"John." Aeryn reached after him and grasped his arm gently, not truly restraining him, simply...requesting.  He paused but didn't turn.  "We'll find a way to fix this," she promised.  
  
John's shoulders slumped slightly.  He knew running was pointless, but it was all he had left.  He needed the motion, to feel like he was in control of his fate.  He couldn't go back to being a statue; the sheer helplessness of that paralyzed state gave him chills.  And if he refused, he would just get himself handed to Scorpy that much faster.  What was left?  
  
He covered Aeryn's hand with his own and gave a single, grateful squeeze, then pulled gently away and continued out the door.  
  
He could hear the argument start up again the microt he was out of sight.  "What the frell do you think you're doing?!" Chatto demanded.  John paused; as much as he needed to go, he didn't want Aeryn and Tauvo catching hell for it.  
  
"Giving Crichton a few microts to cool off and think," was Aeryn's unperturbed reply.  
  
Tauvo spoke up as well.  "What he has been through in the last few solar days would rattle even the hardest Peacekeeper soldier."  
  
Gratified by the support, and reassured that his friends could take care of themselves, John continued down the corridor and away.  Before he turned the corner, he heard Tauvo say, "We need to go inform the admiral."  
  
John was almost sorry he would miss seeing the expression on the old boy's face.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Officer Sun stood straight, chin up and eyes locked, half a step behind and to one side of the admiral's shoulder as he explained their identity and true intentions to the irate empress.  Councilor Tyno stood next to his sovereign in a mirror image of Aeryn's stance, impeccable as always in his white robes.  His eyes were shadowed with hidden grief, but his expression was firm and determined to carry on regardless.  
  
Behind Aeryn's stoic, expressionless mask her mind whirled with emotion.  It was a commonly accepted fact that Peacekeepers hadn't worshipped or even believed in gods or other supernatural creatures for many hundreds of cycles, and there were only whispered myths of earlier beliefs.  Standing here, however, unarmed and defenseless under the gimlet eye of an extremely angry monarch, Aeryn was starting to wonder if she hadn't somehow offended one or more of those supposedly nonexistent beings.  How else to explain ending up in this totally frelled situation?  
  
She'd always known that her fate, like the fate of every Peacekeeper soldier, would be to die in the performance of her duty.  That fate, it seemed, was now upon her, and Aeryn simply wished that she still had a pulse rifle in her hands, or the controls of her old Prowler.  She would much prefer to go down fighting rather than be summarily executed like a substandard recruit.  
  
"Give me one single reason why I should not have you all disemboweled where you stand!"  The sheer intensity of the empress' rage finally drew Aeryn's attention back to situation before her.  
  
The admiral, however, seemed unmoved by the outburst.  "Aside from the distressing mess it would make of this quite lovely audience chamber?  Your daughter would remain childless, your son would inherit your throne, and your empire would be conquered and decimated within a century."  
  
The proud woman stood eye to eye with the admiral, seething silently.  Her glare could have pierced a Dreadnought's armor.  
  
"Empress," the admiral continued in a more conciliatory tone, "the Royal Colonies have been at odds with the Peacekeepers for over 1,800 cycles.  The issues that divide us are long-established, and we understand that your feelings towards us have not changed.  Your situation, however, _has_ changed, and on one subject, I believe, you will agree that your interests and ours coincide.  Neither of us wishes to see your empire fall to the Scarrans."  
  
"How we conduct the affairs of our monarchy is none of the Peacekeepers' concern!"  The empress' voice grew more strident with every word.  "We will not be dictated to!"  
  
The admiral, however, remained firmly calm and rational.  "Which was the reason for our subterfuge, Empress.  When we discovered that John Crichton was potentially compatible with your daughter's poisoned DNA, we knew we had possibly the only solution to your dilemma, but we also knew you would refuse any offer of assistance we made out of hand."  
  
"So you would have me believe that you, a _Peacekeeper_ , came here for utterly altruistic motives?  I am sorry, but I learned my history lessons far too well to believe that."  
  
"Not altruism, Empress.  It is as much in our interest for this empire to remain independent of the Scarrans as it is in yours."  
  
The empress' suspicious expression turned more thoughtful, and she turned away to start pacing across the room.  
  
Just at that moment, one of the Paladins stepped into the room.  He bowed silently to his empress, then approached Councilor Tyno and whispered urgently in his ear.  Tyno frowned, then nodded.  "Empress," he said, turning to Novia, "with your permission, there is a matter which requires my attention."  
  
The empress nodded and waved him away distractedly.  
  
As the younger man trotted out of the room at the guard's heels, Novia turned back to the admiral.  "So, you think to provide me with a successor and an heir through your pawn.  And what is the price for this act of Peacekeeper charity?  I suppose you are proposing some sort of alliance?  You must realize that such a pact, even if we were willing to consider it, would instantly trigger a Scarran attack."  
  
"Empress, there is no price.  Both of our governments benefit from this arrangement.  And while we would be pleased if you _were_ to ally with us, we do understand the probable consequences.  That being the case, your continued neutrality is an acceptable compromise.  Your empire's presence here prevents the Scarrans from making inroads into the Uncharted Territories, and thus guards our borders in this direction from attack."  
  
The woman facing them finally seemed to bow to the logic of that, but still did not back down.  "Regardless of your intentions, for good or ill, my people will never accept a Peacekeeper as their regent.  We would have a civil war on our hands within a matter of solar days!"  
  
The admiral stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and his opposite number and leaving Aeryn standing alone.  She stayed where she was.  "There is no need for that information to ever leave this room, Empress.  That was the reason that I asked to meet with you alone.   My mission here was known to only a few within Peacekeeper Command; even Crichton and the rest of my team did not know until after the fact.  There would be no need for anyone to be informed of Crichton's identity, as long as the Royal Colonies maintain their neutrality."  
  
The empress whirled.  "Is that a threat?" she queried, eyes narrowing dangerously.  
  
Aeryn expected the admiral to immediately deny it, but he surprised her.  "If you wish to view it as such, Empress, that is your prerogative.  It is simply a condition for our continued silence.  But with that condition comes a promise, directly from the Peacekeeper Council.  Even in the event of open warfare between the Peacekeepers and the Scarrans, our forces will not violate your borders, nor interfere in your empire's affairs, without specific invitation so long as you neither make pacts with nor give aid to the Scarran Imperium."  
  
There was another long silence as the empress stared at a point high on the wall; Aeryn could almost see the woman's mind churning through options and possibilities as fast as a Prowler pilot in a dogfight.  
  
"You are correct," she finally admitted, "when you note that our options were few before your arrival.  By the laws of our empire and long tradition, Clavor would have ascended the throne had John Crichton not arrived when he did.  Loathe as I am to be obliged to a Peacekeeper, I cannot deny my gratitude for that boon.  
  
"What you ask in return is no more than I would have done anyway, nor other than Katralla shall do when she rules in my place.  I have little choice but to accept John Crichton as my daughter's husband and my empire's regent, yet I quail at the thought of placing a Peacekeeper officer in such a position of power.  How, I wonder, would he be different from Clavor?  Will he invite the Peacekeepers in at his first opportunity?"  
  
Aeryn found herself shaking her head, even as the admiral voiced her thoughts.  "Your fears are groundless, Empress.  You have seen yourself that Crichton is not Sebacean, and not your typical Peacekeeper.  He was inducted into the ranks less than a cycle ago on a special dispensation for his potential scientific contributions.  His allegiances at the moment are still to his home world, along with certain personal connections, rather than to Peacekeeper Command."  
  
Aeryn was surprised at how well the admiral seemed to know the human, even though he had barely spoken to John in all the monens of their voyage here.  That perspicacity of observation must be yet another aspect of his old disruptor training.  
  
There was a small sound just then as Councilor Tyno reappeared at the entry and cleared his throat.  "Your pardon for the interruption, Empress," he said.  
  
"What is it, Councilor?"  Her voice was sharp with impatience.  
  
"We are receiving a signal from someone named Scorpius."  There was a sharp hiss of indrawn breath from the admiral; Novia glanced over at him with narrowed eyes, but did not interrupt Tyno.  The councilor continued.  "He is quite persistent, and claims to have vital information regarding the succession.  He refuses to divulge it to anyone except you, Empress."  
  
The admiral swore violently.  "I will have his head for this treachery!"  
  
Novia raised a single eyebrow, unfazed by the vehemence.  "You know this...person?"  
  
The admiral took a deep, calming breath and nodded.  "He is the reason I approached you now, Empress, rather than waiting for a more opportune time."  Though his voice was cool once again, the old man's rage was still palpable.  "He is a Scarran hybrid...and a Peacekeeper, though it shames me to admit that in this situation.  My subordinates discovered Scorpius' unauthorized presence on your planet during their search, and were suspicious of his intentions."  
  
"He is working for the Scarrans?"  
  
The admiral shook his head in apparent consternation.  "I suppose it's possible; he's part Scarran himself, after all, and may still have contacts from his time among them."  
  
Aeryn hadn't thought she'd moved or made a sound, but something drew the Empress' attention to her.  Smooth and silent, the woman crossed the room and gazed into her face with regal intensity.  "Why is Scorpius here, Officer Sun?"  
  
She froze, unable to look away.  Duty demanded that she hold her tongue rather than openly contradict her superior officer.  But duty stood mute next to her burgeoning conscience, which insisted that she do what she could to help protect John, both from Scorpius and from the Empress' anger.  She'd promised him.  
  
Fortunately, since she had been specifically addressed, by the letter of her orders she was free to speak.  
  
"Crichton was temporarily assigned to a project at a remote base about half a cycle ago," she said, wording her statement carefully to avoid revealing anything sensitive, like the location of the base or the research conducted there.  "Scorpius was head of the project.  He discovered that Crichton was not Sebacean, had him arrested and...interrogated him.  Scorpius seemed to believe that John possessed some important information, and went so far as to have a tech John cared about killed before his eyes in an attempt to make him reveal it.  After Crichton was rescued and returned to our carrier, Scorpius made repeated attempts to have him transferred back."  
  
The empress listened without comment or expression.  "And you believe that he is here for Crichton?"  
  
Aeryn nodded, then looked down at the toes of her boots.  "John did not come here willingly, Empress, nor did he intend to deceive you; he accepted the assignment in complete ignorance of its purpose, because it was the only way to avoid a transfer back to Scorpius.  If you choose to punish us, I ask that you at least spare him.  He is innocent.  And please, whatever you do, don't hand him over to Scorpius."  
  
The empress listened dispassionately and without comment, then turned to Tyno.  "Where does the message originate?"  
  
"The signal appears to be from a small Peacekeeper vessel which is holding position just outside the range of our border defenses."  
  
Turning back to Aeryn.  "And yet you claim to have encountered this person within the palace itself?"  
  
She nodded.  "Less than two arns ago."  
  
The admiral broke in, saying, "Scorpius is obviously using that ship to relay a transmission from here on the planet's surface, in order to conceal his true location."  
  
Novia's reply was uncharacteristically sarcastic.  "Obviously."  She then turned to Tyno.  "I will take the call in my private office, Councilor.  In the meantime, have security trace the transmission further, if it is indeed a relay."  
  
The young man nodded and bowed briskly, then disappeared back down the corridor.  
  
The admiral was aghast.  "Empress!  You must not consider any dealings with this man!  He is a traitor; obviously he cannot be trusted."  
  
Novia pierced him with her most haughty glare.  "Only a traitor to you, _Admiral_ ," she pointed out, spitting out his title like a curse.  "And as one who has admitted lying to _me_ from the microt you set foot inside my empire, you are hardly in a position to criticize anyone else's honesty.  I will judge for myself."  
  
"But Empress--"  
  
"Silence!"  The shouted order echoed in the large chamber, and even the hard-headed admiral was startled into obedience.  "Take care, sir, that you do not destroy what progress you have already made here.  I _will_ speak to him, and I will listen to what he has to say.  Only then will I make my decision.  Is that clear?"  
  
The admiral seethed, but nodded.  
  
"Remain here."  With that terse order, Novia swept out of the room.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
The midmorning sun flickered through the leafy canopy, warming John's face.  He was wending his way slowly through the open woodland that made up the greater portion of the palace gardens, having given up trying to leave the grounds.  The entrances were simply too heavily guarded, and there would be no way for him to BS his way through in his rose and red wedding outfit.  It was all he had to wear, though; he'd gone back to his old quarters to change, but what few possessions he'd brought down to the surface with him had already been packed up and stored away for the next eighty cycles by the hyper-efficient servant, Ro-Na.  
  
There was a comforting familiarity here among the green trees, a feeling of solitude even with the palace at his back and a whole city thronging less than a metra away on the other side of the walls.  
  
But even as the peace and quiet here soothed John's tired body, it could not stop his thoughts from raging out of control.  He walked randomly, all but blind to the beauty surrounding him, wracking his brain for a way out of his hopeless _Catch-22_ predicament, but to no avail.  Scorpius.  Scarrans.  The empress.  He was hemmed in on all sides by powerful forces scrambling for a piece of him, with no more ability now than when he'd been an impotent statue to determine his own fate.  
  
Reaching a small clearing, John stopped and gazed up at the brilliant blue sky arcing overhead.  Somewhere out there lay another small and lonely world with green trees and blue skies, where people he loved still mourned his loss.  
  
Eighteen months, give or take, since he'd vanished from their lives without a trace.  And for all of that time, going home had been his dream, the hope that got him up out of bed every morning.  For a while that dream had shared space with Gilina and the baby as the most important things in his life; since their death, it had regained ascendancy and redoubled in urgency.  But now....  
  
Katralla, the Royal Colonies, the lives of billions hanging in the balance...he could feel the pull on his conscience, even without the pleasant possibilities of the child he'd 'met' in the testing chamber.  Going home seemed more and more unlikely as time passed, so he'd convinced himself that this would be a fair substitute.  A wife, children, and the possibility that his life might make a difference--it was enough like his old dreams of the future back on Earth to make this Hobson's choice somewhat palatable.  
  
A twig snapped somewhere behind him, but John didn't bother turning.  He'd seen Tauvo from a distance a while back, probably searching for his wayward human.  It had only been a matter of time before he tracked him down.  
  
His feelings about his situation now were somewhat different now than they'd been a solar day ago.  Part of him wanted to go back inside, embrace his responsibilities and rejoin his wife on the dais as a statue.  Deep inside, however, he shuddered at the thought.  Though physically painless, Clavor and Cargn’s attack had been extremely traumatic, and the terror of seeing Scorpius again had nearly driven him over the edge of madness.  John didn't know if he'd be able to stand under that machine again and face being that helpless, never knowing when or how the next assassin would strike.  
  
Of course, all of this was assuming he'd even have the choice.  With Scorpius in the picture, John figured he might well find himself dead or kicked off the planet before nightfall, condemned as a Peacekeeper spy.  
  
He took a breath and tried to find a little faith in Aeryn; she'd promised him they'd find a way to fix this.  She'd never let him down before.  
  
There was a tread of heavy foot on the ground behind him, and a hot breath of air brushed across the back of John's neck.  Frowning, he turned to look....  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
By the time the empress returned half an arn later, Aeryn's ears were burning and she was ready to kill something with her bare hands.  The admiral had spent the intervening time treating her to a harsh dressing-down for speaking her mind to the empress.  It had not been her place to theorize about Scorpius' motivations, he informed her, and she might well have ruined any chance of success for the mission.  
  
He'd just started in on promises of demotion and disgrace when Novia strode through the door and pierced him with an icy glare.  He stuttered to a halt mid-sentence.  
  
"I would suggest," the empress said, "that you withdraw your threats against Officer Sun, Admiral.  Having now heard from all parties in this situation, I have decided to accept your assistance."  
  
The admiral blinked, taken aback for an instant, then plastered his most ingratiating smile across his face.  "I am honored by your trust, Empress."  
  
She turned away with a disgusted snort.  "This has nothing to do with trust, Peacekeeper.  But if my choice is dealing with you, or dealing with... _that_ ," she grimaced in disgust, "then I choose you.  Not because of you, but because of _her_."  A graceful gesture indicated Aeryn.  
  
The admiral frowned, glancing at Officer Sun in confusion, then back at Novia.  
  
The empress smiled wryly.  "Admiral, I endured eighty cycles of frozen existence in that senate chamber, just as my daughter is doing.  As tedious as it is having nothing to do but observe the people around you, that experience taught me far more than you might think.  I learned to judge people, read their motivations, recognize lies.  
  
"You and your traitorous half-breed are of a kind, Admiral.  You are everything I was ever taught Peacekeepers could be: deceitful, arrogant, and callous.  You lied to me from the moment you arrived, Admiral, and you have not stopped yet. That you succeeded in deceiving me in the beginning is a credit to your training; I am not usually so easily fooled.  Scorpius' lies, on the other hand, were entirely transparent."  
  
The empress then turned to face Aeryn.  "The only truth I have heard today came from you, Officer Sun.  My gratitude.  I felt your sincerity when you spoke, and that treacherous half-breed's demands only confirmed my impression.  My son-in-law and successor must be a very special man to have inspired such loyalty and friendship from a Peacekeeper soldier like yourself.  For that alone, even if my daughter's future did not hang upon my decision, I would choose to safeguard him.  Such an ability to win over even the hardest of hearts could very well prove the makings of a true leader."  
  
There was a shuffle of footsteps outside the door, and everyone turned to see half a dozen Paladins march in, a bedraggled and defiant Scorpius bound and constrained in their midst.  A full Scarran growl issued from the half-breed's throat when he saw the empress.  
  
"As for this turncoat," Novia continued, speaking to the admiral and ignoring Scorpius completely, "You were correct in your assumption, Admiral.  Once informed of the possible existence of a relay, my security forces were able to trace the true origin of the signal and apprehend this creature.  I hope you have no objection to him facing our justice for his illegal trespass onto our world."  
  
"No objection, Empress."  The admiral stepped over to the manacled prisoner and gazed calmly at him.  "Do you know me, Scorpius?"  
  
Cold blue eyes gazed out of the black leather mask and narrowed.  "Admiral Bardjan...."  
  
Aeryn blinked.  She knew that name, like she knew the names of all of High Command.  Barracks talk, mostly: Bardjan was one of the least powerful, least influential admirals in the entire hierarchy.  The rank and file considered him senile, far past his prime, and long overdue for retirement.  Apparently, though, that reputation was a deliberate cover.  
  
Still arrogant despite his shackles, Scorpius scoffed, "What is a useless zannet like you doing out here in the Uncharted Territories?  You should be cowering back in your safe little office, writing pointless reports that no one will ever read."  
  
"You are in a poor position to spout insults, traitor.  My position in High Command is a bit more substantial than my public persona might indicate.  Did you ever wonder why no one ever sees the head of Special Directorate?"  
  
The half-breed snarled.  "You?  You are the one who stole Crichton from my grasp, for this useless attempt--?"  
  
Bardjan struck Scorpius a harsh, contemptuous blow across the face, rocking him back into his guards' grasp.  "You should feel privileged, Scorpius...you know something now that only the Council and a few in High Command have been privy to.  I hope it comforts you at your execution."  
  
The empress had stepped away, but now turned to face them with full regal formality.  The subtle shift from informal discussion to official discourse was not lost on Aeryn, who felt herself drawing to attention automatically.  She could see the admiral, too, giving Novia his full interest.  
  
"Find John Crichton, and inform him that his place in the senate chamber awaits his return.  This creature's execution will be my belated wedding gift to him, one I believe he will appreciate."  
  
"What of the Scarran ambassador?" Aeryn asked abruptly, without forethought. "And Prince Clavor?"  
  
Novia's expression darkened instantly.  "What _about_ Clavor?" she growled threateningly.  
  
Aeryn took a deep breath through her nose and plowed onward.  "Though he did infiltrate the palace and attempt to abduct Crichton's head, Scorpius was not responsible for the original attack.  Crichton has identified Cargn and Clavor as the ones who dismembered his statue."  
  
The empress was livid.  "How dare you accuse my son?" she spluttered.  
  
With an effort, Aeryn remained outwardly calm.  "You just praised me for speaking the truth, Empress.  Do you only approve of honesty when it tells you what you want to hear?"  
  
The enraged monarch glared daggers, her face reddening to near purple, but she said nothing.  
  
"No matter what you do with Scorpius, Crichton will still never be safe here."  Aeryn met and held the older woman's eyes, willing her to believe.  "Not as long as he is all that stands between your son and your throne."  
  
Novia shook her head in vehement denial.  "I refuse to believe that Clavor is capable of such an act.  It is simply not possible that a member of the royal family could--"  
  
The rapid pounding of heavy boots outside in the corridor brought the empress' tirade to a halt.  A microt later, Lt. Crais rounded the corner at a dead run, dragging a smaller figure behind him.  They stopped just inside the door, both breathing heavily; Tauvo took in the scene before him and bowed perfunctorily to the empress.  The smaller figure glanced up from the floor, and Aeryn realized it was the Jakench servant girl she'd seen fluttering around John's quarters occasionally.  
  
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" the empress demanded.  
  
"My...apologies, Empress--" Tauvo gasped out.  
  
The Jakench interrupted, also panting for breath.  "Sorry, Highness...had to tell you...right away!"  
  
"What is it, Ro-Na?" Novia's voice was much more patient when addressing this familiar presence.  
  
"It's Crichton, Highness...he's been stolen!"  
  
"Ro-Na," the empress admonished with a smile, "we know that already.  His head was found this morning, and his body reanimated."  
  
"Not the statue, Highness, no!"  Ro-Na skittered towards her sovereign, wringing her hands.  "Just now, the Scarran ambassador, he was carrying him out of the gardens!"  
  
Aeryn froze in shock, glancing at Tauvo for confirmation.  He nodded bleakly, then lowered his gaze.  
  
It just didn't seem fair, Aeryn lamented.  To have found John safe, after so much effort, only to lose him again.  She could feel hot rage building inside her chest, like a stellar flare about to erupt.  The anger was partly at Crichton for running off by himself, but mostly at herself for letting him go.  She had allowed her compassion, an emotion she had once disdained, to override her judgment.  She should have realized he might still be in danger.  
  
Tauvo was speaking to Novia. "The Jakench found me and told me what she'd seen, Empress.  I searched briefly but saw no sign of the Scarran, so I chose to come inform you of the situation as quickly as possible."  
  
The empress didn't hesitate.  "Begin searching immediately!" she snapped, addressing the guards.  With a few quick gestures from the chief Paladin, four of the six bowed and rushed out, leaving two behind to maintain custody of the prisoner.  
  
As the empress moved to the comms panel to mobilize more personnel to the search, Aeryn stepped over towards Tauvo.  "I should never have let him take off alone like that.  It took us arns to find him the first time," she pointed out worriedly.  "And we were lucky, at that.  We may not have that much time...."  
  
Tauvo nodded somberly.  "I should have found him quicker," he grumbled miserably.  
  
Aeryn nearly smiled, realizing that she and he were both blaming themselves.  "He hides very well," she noted in a deadpan voice, and was rewarded with a ghost of a smile on Tauvo's face as well.  
  
The empress was ranting at the top of her voice across the room, speaking to no one in particular.  "If any harm comes to John Crichton, that Scarran will pay with his life!"  
  
_Any harm?_ Aeryn wondered bleakly.  As if being beheaded and tossed in acid weren't harm enough.  And this was a Scarran they were talking about--when had _any_ Peacekeeper every encountered one of their kind _without_ coming to harm?  
  
Aeryn fought the urge to stalk over and slap the old tralk's face.  This situation would have never occurred if Novia hadn't been so blind to her son's ambition and perverted loyalties.  Even now, she refused to see the truth.  
  
In the absence of such a satisfying display, Aeryn just wanted to rush out and tear this palace to the foundations until she found Crichton.  All that stayed her feet was the knowledge that she had no more clue where to begin than anyone else, and she knew far less about the terrain than those already conducting the search.  She clenched her fists in frustration.  
  
"I can find Crichton."  
  
The sudden announcement stunned everybody into silence.  As one, every person in the room turned to face the speaker.  
  
Scorpius gazed back at them all boldly, still exuding confidence despite his situation.  
  
"How do you think I found him so easily the first time?  Release my chains, and I will trace the human for you as I did before."  
  
The empress looked dubious.  "I suppose you want something in exchange for this assistance, Peacekeeper?  A full pardon, perhaps?"  
  
Scorpius gave a noncommittal shrug in response.  "I leave that detail to my lady's formidable conscience," he said silkily.  "John Crichton is of no use to either of us dead, and he is too dangerous a pawn to leave in the Scarrans' hands under any circumstances."  
  
Novia stared the half-breed in the face for a long moment, searchingly.  Aeryn could see the admiral standing opposite her, glaring angry holes in the unresponsive black leather that covered the back of Scorpius' head.  
  
"Very well," the empress finally agreed.  "The matter is urgent, so I will grant you a conditional parole for this task.  My final decision on the matter will await the outcome of your efforts."  
  
"My appreciation, Empress," Scorpius replied as the Paladins unlocked the cuffs from his wrists and ankles.  
  
"Understand this, Peacekeeper," Novia said in a quiet, menacing voice, moving right up into the half-breed's face.  "I do not trust you.  My guards are fully authorized to kill you in an instant, should you attempt betrayal or flight."  
  
Scorpius' only response was a mocking little bow.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Sweat trickled down John's body, soaking the ragged remnants that were all that remained of his flimsy tunic.  Drops burned into his eyes and made small sizzle-pop noises when they dripped into the acid vat below.  The searing pain from his shoulder, dislocated in his struggles with Scarran, had long since melted into the overall agony, until he could no longer tell where the pain ended and he began.  
  
The chains around his wrists held him suspended precariously over the tank of greenish liquid while the Scarran prowled around the edge, shooting questions and heat at him in alternating waves.  He had tried to keep silent, or barricade his mind with wit and bravado, but he was so tired.  The heat was already making him nauseous; he wondered distantly what this would do to a Sebacean.  Every dench of exposed skin, which included his arms and most of his torso, felt like he'd gotten a third-degree sunburn.  _Where's the Coppertone when you need it?_  
  
John knew he'd revealed some things.  He just couldn't remember what he'd said.  Scorpy's name had come up once or twice, he knew; the Scarran wanted to know how he'd gotten out of the acid the first time, and that wasn't information John felt like fighting very hard to hold back.  
  
Prince Clavor had appeared at some point during the interrogation.  John could hear him whining in the background, even now, demanding petulantly that Cargn kill his rival.  Hard to believe the guy was actually related to the pleasant and level-headed Princess Katralla.  
  
"Kill him, Cargn!  They'll be searching here soon.  Drop him in the acid, and there'll be no evidence.  The throne will be mine!"  
  
The Scarran growled, still pacing back and forth like a hungry tiger.  "If Scorpius has come so far," he hissed, "then this creature must have something he wants very badly.  I will know what it is."  
  
"But the searchers--"  The whine in Clavor's tone grew more pronounced by the microt.  
  
"--will be combing the palace for arns, impatient prince.  We have more than sufficient time to find the information I need."  Like a hungry T-Rex, the Scarran swung his entire head around towards Crichton.  A clawed hand reached upwards and a wave of searing heat washed across John's bare chest.  
  
He convulsed, head bending backwards, his screams echoing off the high, concrete walls.  Blisters formed and burst on the tender skin under his arms and across his ribs.  
  
The Scarran's voice penetrated the pain.  "Why is Scorpius here?  Why has he come all this way to rescue you?"  
  
"I...don't...know," John managed to grit out between his teeth.  It was partly true; he didn't really know why Scorpius was so desperate to get him back.  It seemed like a lot of trouble to go to for a few scientific equations John wasn't even sure he possessed.  
  
The heat intensified, focused on his head.  "What does he want with you?!" the question came again, more demanding.  
  
John opened his mouth, the pressure of the heat probe forcing the truth up this throat.  But just at that moment, another voice broke into the cacophony and the agony abated.  
  
"Why not ask me that question, Ambassador?"  
  
John couldn't see the intruder who had entered from behind him, but he recognized the voice.  He saw Cargn scowl in disgust, and for just one second John was in total agreement with him.  
  
"Scorpius...."  The Scarran's voice thickened with contempt as he said the name.  
  
Clavor fled from this new intruder, scampering back to hide behind the huge bulk of his erstwhile ally.  
  
Scorpius appeared at the edge of John's field of view, sauntering around the edge of the room as if he hadn't a care in the world.  The Scarran turned to follow his movements, pointing his arm threateningly.  
  
"Step closer, biological mistake, and I will be pleased to oblige.  You have come to retrieve your quarry, I see."  The Scarran placed his other hand on the release mechanism for the chains.  "A single move, and your prize will fall."  
  
John knew he ought to be frightened.  Maybe it was the pain, which still wracked him from head to toe, but he felt nothing at the sight of his own death under the Scarran's heavy hand.  It wasn't really a bad third option when considering the combatants vying for possession of him.  
  
Suddenly Clavor, still cowering behind Cargn, glanced back towards the door where Scorpius had entered, and his eyes widened.  Backing away, his head swung back and forth in desperate uncertainty.  
  
"Hold fast!"  Three separate voices spoke the command in tandem from behind John.  Clavor swallowed nervously, then suddenly decided to switch sides.  
  
"Guards, kill the Scarran!" he squealed.  "He abducted me!  And the Regent!  Kill him!"  
  
Cargn turned ponderously, glaring at what was probably an entire contingent of the empress' Paladins at the door, then turning towards the quivering Clavor.  "Duplicitous prince...as promised, you die now."  
  
The Scarran directed the full force of his heat gland at the cringing Sebacean, just as the room erupted into pulse fire.  
  
None of it seemed to have any effect on the Scarran; Clavor screamed and collapsed into a twitching puddle of burned flesh.  Then Cargn turned and raised the other arm, aiming for the chain release, determined to rob the rescuers of their prize.  John closed his eyes, waiting for the drop.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn Sun stood quiet and pensive in the darkened senate chamber.  The palace around her was nearly silent on this, the last evening of the official period of mourning.  Voices were hushed, expressions somber.  Even so, she had felt the need to come here, to be alone.  
  
Or, well, not completely alone.  A single statue, standing straight and proud, still graced the dais in the center of the room.  The princess' expression showed the subdued happiness of her wedding day.  Aeryn wondered, looking at that frozen smile, if Katralla wept for all of their recent losses behind her mask.  
  
Five days had passed since the frantic search for John Crichton had ended, deep in the bowels of the palace, and Aeryn still found herself thinking about it, wondering what she might have done differently.  
  
Once the empress agreed to let Scorpius lead them to Crichton, a mixed group of Paladins and Peacekeeper commandos--allowed to carry their weapons once again by royal decree--was quickly assembled.  The group had included not only herself and Lt. Crais, but also her fellow Marauder crewmembers Aqida and Leyn.  
  
If Aeryn had thought the admiral was harsh with her for speaking out to the empress, she soon discovered differently.  He ripped into Aqida and Leyn with no mercy, for having allowed Scorpius aboard their transport in the first place, and for not informing the admiral of his arrival.  Neither commando made any excuses.  They knew, just as Aeryn knew, that unless they did something to redeem themselves, they faced harsh punishment upon their return to Peacekeeper space.  
  
Scorpius had been as good as his word, at least as far as getting them to Crichton's location.  Using a strange device, probably one of his own design, he traced the human's DNA signature back down to the industrial levels.  Once they arrived, the half-breed had offered to act as a distraction; after some heated discussion, the chief Paladin had agreed.  
  
As the Scarran and Scorpius bickered, Aeryn had had to suppress a gasp of horror at her first glimpse of John Crichton.  He was hanging five motras in the air over an industrial acid tank, his bare back and arms slick with sweat and blood, blisters from the heat evident in several places.  She couldn't tell if he was conscious, or even if he was alive.  
  
After that, though, everything had gone to Hezmana very quickly.  Clavor's call for help had confused the Paladin guards just long enough for Cargn to turn and blast his puppet prince into the living death.  As pulse blasts criss-crossed the chamber, Aeryn saw the Scarran turn to the chain hoist release, about to send the battered body of his other victim plunging into the acid.  
  
Aeryn had tensed, about to leap on the Scarran, do anything to stop him, but she was a microt slow.  Sub-officer Leyn reached Cargn first and threw her entire body weight against that powerful arm, deflecting it just enough to miss the release mechanism.  
  
The victory was short-lived, of course, as she must have known it would be.  A Sebacean, even a highly-trained Peacekeeper commando, had little chance of victory in hand-to-hand combat against a far stronger and supremely invulnerable Scarran.  Within microts, Leyn was smashed to the floor and didn't get up.  
  
It was at that moment that a stray shot, ricocheting off of the Scarran's hide, struck the chains holding Crichton suspended, sending him plummeting towards the acid below.  
  
Aeryn had screamed in denial, too far away to act, able only to watch in horror as he fell.  A blur of motion caught her eye in that fraction of a microt, as Senior Officer Aqida executed a perfectly timed leap across the acid vat and struck the falling man square in the back.  The impact threw Crichton forward, away from the tank.  His feet caught on the edge of the vat at the last microt, tumbling him to the hard floor with a bone-jarring crash, where he too lay still.  
  
Aqida was not so lucky; the impact that had thrown John clear had stopped his own trajectory in mid-flight.  His momentum lost, he dropped straight into the vat and did not surface.  The acid was so powerful, it was likely he had died too fast to feel any pain.  
  
In all of the ensuing chaos, the Scarran ambassador escaped, after leaving two Paladins in the throes of severe heat delirium and a third dead of a broken neck.  He was later shot down in space, attempting to flee in a stolen cargo vessel.  
  
Scorpius, too, had managed to slink away during the firefight.  Thus far, no trace of him had been found.  The admiral was of the opinion that he would simply vanish into the Uncharted Territories, assuming he even made it off-planet.  Once Bardjan returned to High Command, Scorpius' career in the Peacekeepers would be finished.  
  
Now, five solar days later, the royal family was just concluding its official mourning period for the late and unlamented Prince Clavor.  Crichton was still in the hospital wing recovering from his injuries, which had included a severely dislocated and torn shoulder, a concussion and cracked cheekbone from the fall, and blistered burns over a third of his body.  
  
The colony doctors had muttered in awe at the level of heat the human had survived.  They had worried when he first awakened that the heat might have affected his mental capacities, but Aeryn had smiled and assured them that John always talked like that.  
  
Leyn, too, had survived, though she was in far worse condition than Crichton.  Her shoulder and upper arm were crushed, and her neck had been broken, though the spinal cord was still intact.  The doctors were worried about swelling, though, which might damage the nerves and paralyze her for life.  
  
Aeryn had spent a good portion of her time in the hospital wing, visiting both of them.  Crichton seemed intent on distracting himself from his own pain and worries by trying to cheer Leyn up.  
  
Her silent contemplation in the shadows of the senate chamber was brought to an end when two people entered through the main doors.  Empress Novia and Councilor Tyno stopped, likely surprised to find the room occupied.  
  
"Empress.  Councilor." Aeryn greeted with a polite bow to each.  
  
"Officer Sun," the empress replied.  "Did you have a purpose here?"  
  
Aeryn flushed; her reasons seemed foolish when put into words.  "I wanted to spend some time here, feel the room.  John Crichton will be spending the next eighty cycles within these walls...I suppose I want to remember him."  
  
Novia and Tyno glanced at each other, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"What?" Aeryn demanded, feeling a twinge of worry.  "Is something wrong with Crichton?"  
  
Tyno hastened to reassure her.  "No, Officer, he is recovering well; he should be ready to leave the hospital wing by tomorrow."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
He glanced at his sovereign, who nodded.  "As I have just informed the Empress, there is a problem we had not foreseen.  John Crichton will not be able to resume his role as Regent after all."  
  
"What?  After everything we went through?"  
  
"Do you think this pleases me?" the empress asked grimly.  "Having made such concessions to you Peacekeepers for the sake of an heir, I have now lost nearly everything I had gained."  
  
Tyno tried to clarify.  "Our transfiguration technology is designed for Sebaceans.  You will recall the level of pain the process inflicted on Crichton the first time.  Our doctors have warned us that his human physiology would not tolerate it a second time; it would kill him."  
  
"This is what I have come here to tell Katralla," the empress said, gazing sadly at her daughter.  
  
Aeryn was torn between anger and elation.  They had gone to so much effort to get to this point, it was difficult to conceive of it all being for nothing.  And yet, she knew John was terrified of having to become a helpless statue again.  This revelation would be a welcome relief.  
  
"So Katralla will have to step down?" she asked, wondering who would take the throne now that Clavor was out of the picture.  
  
Novia smiled thinly and shook her head.  "The next nearest person to the throne is a fourth cousin, already past 200 cycles old and childless.  Katralla will remain as the next empress."  
  
"But what about an heir?  Without Crichton, how is she to have children of her own?"  
  
"That is not an issue.  Katralla is already pregnant; the line will continue."  
  
Aeryn stopped with her mouth hanging open, shocked and forgetting what her next words were to be.  Another child of Crichton's genes, like Gilina's child.  Another child lost to him.  
  
When she found her voice again, she asked, "Will your people accept an empress with no regent?"  
  
Novia looked worried.  "I do not know.  There is no precedent."  
  
Aeryn glanced over at Tyno, who was paying no attention to the conversation anymore.  He was staring at Katralla, longing and love written clearly on his face.  She had a flash of an idea.  
  
"Have someone take Crichton's place, then.  Councilor Tyno loves her; let him be Regent.  No one need ever know that he's not the father of Katralla's child."  
  
Novia looked over at Tyno, whose eyes had widened in surprise and hope.  It didn't take long to consult with Katralla, who gave her ready and grateful acceptance of the idea.  Just as they were wrapping up, Aeryn had one more question.  
  
"Have you informed Crichton yet?"  
  
"Not yet.  That was to be my next task," Novia assured her.  
  
"Then may I ask a favor, Empress?"  
  
The empress' eyes narrowed speculatively.  "What type of favor?"  
  
"Will you allow me to deliver the news to Crichton?"  
  
Novia thought for a microt, then nodded.  "May I ask why?"  
  
"Because I don't want to have to ask you to lie to him."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
John stared at Aeryn's serious face, still a bit groggy from so much sleep.  He was feeling almost healthy again for the first time in days.  "You're sure?  They won't make me go back to being a statue?"  
  
Aeryn nodded, gracing him with one of her magical smiles.  "Apparently the process isn't meant for humans.  It would kill you if they tried it a second time."  
  
The relief was so profound, so overwhelming, that John found himself laughing.  The doctors across the room glanced at him, worried, but none of them seemed willing to approach.  "Hallelujah!" he finally sighed emphatically.  
  
Aeryn raised an eyebrow at that untranslatable word, and John grinned wider.  
  
It took a few minutes for reality to impinge upon the joy of freedom.  Scorpius was no longer a threat, and he didn't have to stay here as a pigeon perch for the next several decades.  He could refocus his efforts on going home; suddenly all the difficulties and dead ends of his research seemed minor.  The Peacekeepers might not want to let him go, but he'd find a way.  
  
"Wait..." he finally said, remembering something.  "What about Katralla?  She'll lose her throne--"  
  
Aeryn shook her head.  "No, she won't.  With Clavor dead, she's the only available heir.  They'll let her stay.  I suggested they appoint Councilor Tyno as your replacement."  
  
John nodded.  "Good.  She loves him; she deserves to be happy.  But what about her poisoned DNA?  How can she have kids?"  
  
Aeryn shrugged, her eyes shifting away from his face.  "I suppose they have the next eighty cycles to research the problem.  Maybe in that time they'll find a cure."  
  
"Hmm.  Maybe."  



	4. Scarran Redux

_"Be with me when I go..." -- Leslie Crichton_  
  
  
  
Aeryn stood at the door to Moya's center chamber, watching John.  He was sitting hunched over the table, turning a drinking cup between his hands, staring into space.  He seemed oblivious to everything, lost in thought, and she couldn't help but wonder what was running through his mind.  
  
"Penny for them."  
  
She jumped, startled.  John hadn't looked up, hadn't stopped rocking that cup back and forth in mechanical repetition, but the words had undoubtedly issued from him.  They made too little sense to have been from anyone else.  
  
"What did you say?" she finally asked.  
  
"'Penny for your thoughts', Aeryn," he said with a small half-smile, still not looking at her.  "Human phrase.  Just wondering what you were thinking."  
  
"Hm."  She walked into the room and sat down across the table from him, into his line of sight.  He blinked and finally met her eyes.  "Actually, I was just about to ask you the same thing," she said.  
  
John's eyes drifted away from her again, and he was quiet for a long moment.  The cup stilled and was set down on the table.    
  
"I was thinking..."  
  
She waited.    
  
"I was thinking that I should apologize...but I'm not sure to whom."  
  
"Apologize?  What for?"  
  
John looked down at his hands, turning them over and back as if analyzing his very pores for an answer.  "I feel...I feel like I've been walking in a fog for the past half cycle.  I've been so...wrapped up in myself, in what happened to me...I haven't had anything left for anyone else.  I haven't been much of a friend lately."  He glanced up, looking over Aeryn's shoulder at the door.  "To either of you."  
  
Aeryn turned to see Tauvo standing just where she had been microts before, his hand resting on the archway.  
  
"Hey," he greeted, stepping inside.  
  
She almost laughed--some of John's incomprehensible phrases had infiltrated their vocabulary of late--but just said "Hey" back.  
  
"Crichton," he said, sitting down across from them both.  "We do appreciate that your experiences on the Gammak base were... unpleasant."  
  
John shook his head sadly.  "That's no excuse.  I've had my head up my ass for way too long.  And then, back there on the Royal Planet?  God, I'm amazed that one of you didn't shoot me."  
  
"Don't think I wasn't tempted," Aeryn teased.  
  
"I've spent this whole trip, ever since the admiral grabbed me on the carrier, doing nothing but react.  I was scared.  Scared of Scorpy.  Scared of the admiral.  Scared of my own frelling shadow, seems like, and all I could seem to do was run away.  I never even tried to fight back.  I can't believe you guys managed to put up with me when I was being such a coward."  
  
Aeryn nodded, somewhat undiplomatically.  She _had_ been worried about him.  He'd changed after the Gammak base, as if he'd lost something more than just Gilina.  Some integral part of the strength and stubbornness that had first drawn Aeryn to him, that had saved her life, and Tauvo's life, on numerous occasions, had been missing.  He'd been good at masking it, most of the time, burying the damage under false smiles and jokes, but under stress it had shown through clearly.  The Peacekeeper in her had been disgusted, but the rest of her had just hoped it was temporary and that the Crichton she knew would return.  
  
John either didn't see her too-ready agreement or ignored it.  "It's like I've been sleepwalking through my life," he groused, "and now I'm finally opening my eyes.  Something, maybe that last bout with the Scarran, seems to have snapped me out of it.  I'm done wallowing in self-pity."  
  
"Glad to hear it, Crichton," Tauvo said lightly.  "You're right, you know.  You have been acting like a drannit lately."  
  
"What's a drannit?"    
  
Aeryn and Tauvo met each other's look at that and burst into laughter, while John just looked on, first confused and then dismayed.  
  
"Never mind.  I don't think I want to know."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
"I still can't believe you did that, Crichton," Aeryn grumbled as she and John approached their table.  She handed one of the drinks she was holding to Lt. Crais, who was already seated, and then sat down.  John swung a leg carelessly over the third chair and set his own glass on the table.   
  
After a long day of loading supplies onto the transport pod and ferrying them to Moya, the three friends had returned to the planet's surface for a well-earned, if reluctantly awarded, single solar day of shore leave.  They had claimed a corner of this disreputable-looking tavern for the evening.  The other patrons of the bar were giving their table a wide berth; three armed Peacekeepers on leave was enough to give even the most inebriated troublemaker pause.  
  
"Oh, come on.  It worked, didn't it?"  John grinned unrepentantly as he took a large mouthful of the local alcoholic brew.  
  
Tauvo was looking at both of them as if they'd grown two heads.  "Did what?  What did you do, Crichton?"  
  
John sat back and steepled his fingers together, eyes twinkling with amusement.  "I dunno....  What do you think, Aeryn?  Will the good lieutenant here turn me in if I tell him what a bad boy I've been?"  
  
As she pretended to ponder the question, Aeryn saw Crais come to the realization that he was being teased.  "I suppose I could be convinced to look the other way...for a price," he shot back at Crichton.  
  
John sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes.  "Extortion.  Oh, how the mighty Peacekeeper has fallen--"  He broke off with a laughing yelp as Tauvo tossed one of the salty snacks from the bowl in the center of the table at him.  
  
The dark-haired lieutenant held up his hand, holding another of the small nut-like objects as if ready to throw again.  "Talk, Crichton," he growled, "or face the consequences!"    
  
John grabbed a handful from the bowl for himself and took up a defensive stance, trying to look fierce but failing miserably.    
  
Aeryn looked on, highly bemused, as the two men's banter quickly devolved into an all-out food fight.  Crichton might not be the best shot with a pulse pistol, she thought, but he more than made up for it with the accuracy of his thrown projectiles.  She amused herself for a time by picking up stray pellets and tossing them at both combatants.  
  
Eventually the two laughing men ran out of ammunition and returned to their seats.  The rest of the patrons were looking at them like they'd completely lost their minds, and the clear space left around them had, if anything, increased.  "So, are you going to tell me?" Tauvo asked when he finally caught his breath.  
  
John snorted, looking down at his glass.  "Okay, fine.  Moya's refrigeration system didn't fail by accident.  I rigged it."  
  
"What?  Why?"  
  
The human shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Aeryn as if for moral support before replying. "For Tesha."  
  
Crais snorted.  "Crichton, what are you concerning yourself with Sub-officer Leyn for?  We'll take her back to the carrier's doctors; if she recovers, she'll return to duty.  If not, she'll be retired with honors."  
  
Crichton exploded.  "'Retired' my redneck ass!  She's paralyzed.  They'll kill her, or let her kill herself."  He glanced at Aeryn, but she kept her face impassive.  Her own paralysis and narrowly-averted fate was not a memory she cared to exhume.  "Either way, same difference.  I am not going to let that happen; that's why I did what I did."  
  
"What do you mean?  What exactly did you do?"  Crais didn't seem angry, merely puzzled.  
  
Aeryn joined the conversation at that point.  "The Delvian prisoner believes that, untreated, Leyn's injuries will cause permanent neural damage by the time we reach the carrier.  She knows of a treatment that may help, though."  
  
Now Crais looked interested.  "Why did she not simply inform the admiral?"  
  
John barked a harsh laugh.  "She did!  Frelling bastard blew her off, didn't believe her.  He refused to stop anywhere where Zhaan could get the ingredients she needed.  'No need to delay our return for something so insignificant,' is the way he put it.  We're talking about a woman's life here, a woman who was injured while saving _mine_.  I can't just stand by and watch the bastard discard her like an empty chakan oil cartridge."  
  
Aeryn spoke up again, this time addressing John.  "What I still don't understand, though, is what possessed you to sabotage the refrigeration system," she asked, puzzled by the choice of targets.  
  
John grinned at the recollection, all his previous indignation forgotten.  "I needed something that wasn't significant enough to arouse suspicions, but was still important enough to get a reaction.  Our dear admiral may be a tough bastard in every other way, but he likes to eat, and eat well.  Pilot helped me make some inquiries.  There's a commerce planet near our course that had the stuff Zhaan needs.  Then I killed the cold storage and all of the Admiral's fancy groceries spoiled.  I timed it so we'd be in range of this place when he discovered the problem."  
  
"Crichton...." Tauvo growled, looking stern and disgusted.    
  
"Hey, don't get your panties in a bunch, buddy.  There's plenty of food cubes, so we weren't in any danger of going hungry if he didn't take the bait.  I just didn't figure our fearless leader would want to stoop to eating grot rations for over two monens.  And I was right."  He indicated the commerce planet they were currently drinking on with a grandiose wave.  "Here we are."    
  
Aeryn thought it might be a good idea to change the subject.  "Well, I can't say I don't understand the admiral's eagerness to get back home.  I'd like to get back to actually doing something useful, and I haven't had my hands on a decent set of flight controls in monens."  
  
John quirked an eyebrow at her.  "You flew the pod down here less than two arns ago, Aeryn."  
  
"That doesn't count."  Leviathan transport pods were both sturdy and functional, but about as challenging to pilot as a level riser.  
  
Crais slammed back the rest of his drink and waved to the nearest servicer for another round.  "We'll be fortunate not to have to undergo retraining when we return, after so long without proper facilities."  
  
Aeryn nodded somberly.  
  
Crichton slouched a little deeper into his chair.  "Well, hey, at least you guys have something to look forward to.  I have no idea what's going to happen to me when we get back."  
  
Now where had that come from?  "Won't you go right back to your wormhole research?  I thought that's why you didn't want to stay on the Royal Planet in the first place," Aeryn asked.  
  
John shrugged.  "Maybe, maybe not.  It's not like I was making a whole hell of a lot of progress before the admiral shanghaied my ass out here.  Captain Crais might have decided to dump the whole project."  
  
Tauvo smiled slightly.  "While it is true that my brother is not known for his patience, you're forgetting one small detail, Crichton: Scorpius will be officially expelled from Peacekeeper ranks as soon as the Admiral gets back to High Command with his report.  That means _his_ little wormhole project is going to take a serious hit and might even get shut down completely.  You'll be the one and only remaining researcher, and don't think Bialar is going to let an opportunity like that pass him by."  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"After I finish talking to him?  You bet your eema."  
  
John smiled a bit wider at that.  "You da man," he drawled, holding up a fist.  Tauvo met the gesture, striking John's hand with his own.  It was one of the many strange rituals Aeryn had observed between the two of them over the past half cycle, all of them equally incomprehensible.    
  
John held his upbeat mood as the next round finally arrived at the table, along with a fresh bowl of snack food to replace the bowl they'd used as ammunition.  After the servicer left, though, he sighed.  "I just wish I was making better progress.  At the rate I'm going I'm gonna be stuck here for cycles."    
  
Aeryn glanced at Tauvo.  "He doesn't like our company," she lamented in a mock-serious tone.  
  
The lieutenant smirked.  "We should have left him with his princess," he replied.  
  
"Yes, he'd have been much happier spending the next eighty cycles dressed in bronze."  
  
"She _was_ very pretty, you know."  
  
"Think of the power."  
  
"The money."  Tauvo's eyes were sparkling as he got into the game.  
  
"The mindless tedium."  Aeryn went in for the kill.  
  
John finally burst out laughing.  "Fine, fine, I give!  You're right, both of you.  You're very annoying when you're right."  
  
"Well, I apologize for my strengths," Aeryn quipped back.  
  
"I'm the senior officer present," Tauvo said, very seriously.  "That means I'm _always_ right.  It's in the regs.  Look it up."  
  
The bowl of nuts was soon empty again, as Crais found himself under attack from two sides at once.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn charted a careful course across the now mostly deserted refreshment house, back to the table where she could hear John loudly expounding on some topic.  From this distance, Tauvo appeared to be listening with rapt attention to every word...or maybe he was just concentrating very hard on not getting sick.  
  
Both men had quite clearly consumed more than their fair share of alcohol in the past few arns.  After the first few rounds, John had decided he ought to be celebrating his narrow escape from the clutches of, as he put it, 'Empress, Scarrans, and Scorpy, oh my,' and had set to it with a will.  
  
Aeryn's steps faltered slightly as she crossed the room, but she managed not to lose her balance.  She was doing somewhat better than her companions.    
  
As she drew closer to the table, she could hear John more clearly.  "I's like...freeways.  Y' find one, hop on and drive al'ng in y'r '62 T-bird wi' the top down...anyway, y' hafta go where the road goes.  But I don' gotta map."  John reached for his glass, and found it on the third try.    
  
"Crichton," she interrupted as she reached the table, "what the frell are you prattling on about?"  
  
"Hey beautiful!" The human greeted effusively, raising the glass and sloshing half the remaining liquid onto the table.  "Where you been hidin'?"  
  
Aeryn felt her face flush at that intimate greeting.  "Playing tadek in the back room," she reminded him.  "You boys were having too much fun for me."  
  
"Oh, well, tha's all righ' then.  I jus' been tryin' to 'splain somethin' to Dippy the Wonder Grunt here."  
  
For the first time since she'd walked up, Tauvo blinked.  He looked at Aeryn, looked at John, then groaned and laid his head on the table.  "Crichton," came his muffled voice, "I hardly believed it was possible, but you make even less sense when you're drunk."  
  
John snorted derisively, then looked up at Aeryn.  "Really, babe, it's very simple...."  
  
She tried to interrupt.  "Crichton, I think you should--"  
  
"See, y' wanna get from poin' A to poin' B.  Got three choices."  
  
"Crichton--"  
  
"Y' cud fly normal, but that'd take years.  Y' cud _make_ a wormhole--"  
  
"John!" she finally snapped, sharply enough to cut through the alcoholic haze.  She also covered his mouth with one hand.  
  
"Wha'?" he queried in a hurt, muffled voice.  
  
Aeryn held up one finger in front of his face; John's eyes nearly crossed trying to look at it.  "This is not a good place to be discussing classified projects," she explained quietly.    
  
It took a few microts for the words to penetrate the human's sodden brain cells, but he finally nodded agreeably.  
  
They sat together in silence for a while, as Aeryn ordered herself a fresh drink and the two men nursed what was left of theirs.  Suddenly, after about a hundred microts, John frowned and shook his head.  Aeryn was about to ask what was wrong when he waved a hand impatiently past his ear, as if brushing away a biting insect.  "No!" he snapped.  "Go away.  You aren't real."  His voice was pained, almost frightened.  
  
"John?  Who are you talking to?"  
  
"Hmm?"  John attempted to look innocent, but his usual ability to dissemble was seriously hampered by inebriation.  "Oh, nothin'.  Jus' talkin' to myself."  The lie was all too obvious, but Aeryn didn't know what to do about it.  It might just be the effect of too much alcohol, or it might be something like transit madness--hallucinations were a common symptom.  She'd have to remember to keep an eye on him.  
  
"I think it's time to go back to our lodgings so you can sleep it off," she finally suggested.  Rest would help, no matter what the source of the problem.  
  
"Aw, do I hafta, Mom?" John whined in a childish voice, the sloppy grin on his face almost erasing the memory of his earlier lapse.  
  
Tauvo levered himself up out of his chair and wavered a moment before finding his balance.  "Officer Sun is correct.  We should be on our way before we have to carry you out of here."    
  
Aeryn saw Tauvo put a hand on the chair back to steady himself again and smirked.  "Before _I_ have to carry _both_ of you," she corrected him.  
  
The two men glanced at each other and leered.  "Sounds like fun," Tauvo said.  John snickered.  
  
Fortunately, nothing of the sort was required; both men managed to negotiate the narrow streets between the refreshment house and their rented lodgings without assistance.  Fortunate because, though she'd certainly consumed less than her companions, Aeryn was not entirely steady on her feet, either.  The three of them must have been an amusing spectacle, staggering into one another and laughing hysterically the whole way, while Crichton periodically serenaded the local neighborhoods with raucous drinking songs from his home world.  
  
By the time they lurched into the rooming house and up to their rooms, all three were gasping and breathless with laughter.  Aeryn herself was feeling downright giddy, flushed from head to toe with a pleasant warmth.  Despite her earlier words, she wasn't really sure she was ready for the evening to be over.  
  
They finally stumbled into the room being shared by Crichton and Crais.  Tauvo collapsed dramatically onto one bunk, while Aeryn tossed Crichton, still singing, onto the other.  The human silenced on impact, then turned laboriously over to face her.  
  
"Gonna tuck me in, Mom?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
Aeryn just shook her head.  "Go to sleep, Crichton," she said.  
  
She could see him losing his battle for consciousness, as his eyelids drooped lower.  After a few microts, he muttered a sleepy question that she didn't catch enough of to interpret.  "What was that, Crichton?"  
  
"Keep Scorpy away from me?"  It was a plaintive, child-like request, from a mind already half asleep.  
  
"Scorpius isn't here, John," she assured him, but he was gone before she finished the sentence and soon snoring quietly.  
  
Aeryn turned to Tauvo, who had rolled up onto one elbow and was watching her with an intense expression.  "I suppose you want to be 'tucked in' as well?" she joked.  
  
The response she received was not exactly what she'd been expecting.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
It was morning.  Generations of humans across the face of their fertile planet, in hundreds of languages and dialects, had cursed mornings throughout the centuries.  John was proud, he supposed, to be able to add Sebacean profanity to the legacy.  
  
A thin beam of morning sunlight streamed through the tiny crack in the window shade, providing John with first-hand proof that there were worse tortures than the Aurora chair.  
  
He rolled over, groaning dramatically at the pain in his head and the roiling sea-storm that was his stomach, before braving the agony that followed opening his eyes.  The world was blurry, and refused to hold still.  
  
"Hey man," he began, complaining to his roomie.  "Why'd you let me--"  By that point, though, his eyes had managed to focus, and he realized he was alone.  The other bunk across the room, which should have held an equally hung-over and disgruntled lieutenant, was empty.  
  
He narrowed his eyes, looking closer.  Empty, yes, and neatly made to boot.  "Frelling Peacekeeper poster boy," John grumbled, throwing the covers over his head in disgust.  "Even makes his bed in a hotel."  
  
Half an arn later, after a long, cool, soothing shower--firmly rationed aboard spaceships like the carrier and Moya as a precious and limited resource, water was blessedly unrestricted planetside--John was able to stagger down to the common room and collapse into a chair at the table Tauvo and Aeryn had already claimed for first meal.  
  
Without a word, Tauvo passed him a huge, golden-amber pill.  It looked for all the world like a giant vitamin capsule, but he took it gratefully and swallowed it without even waiting for water to wash it down.  The medics on the carrier had dispensed these Nashtin pills to him a few times when his binges left him unable to report for duty; he recognized it immediately for what it was.   
  
"Thanks, man," he sighed, leaning back and waiting for blessed relief to set in.  "Hope you guys didn't have to carry me back to the room or anything last night."  John's memory of the previous evening was vague and fragmented at best.  
  
Aeryn shook her head, not looking up from her plate.  She hadn't so much as glanced at John since he'd sat down.  He figured she was still waiting for her own pill to take effect.  
  
"No, Crichton," Tauvo confirmed.  "We all managed to crawl back under our own power, more or less."  
  
By the time the Nashtin finally kicked in a quarter arn later, John was ready to face the concept of breakfast.  Aeryn and Tauvo had already finished theirs, but they lingered while he ate.  Aeryn was quiet, letting Tauvo do the talking for the most part.  
  
"So, you have some shopping to do today, right Crichton?" Tauvo finally asked as John finished eating.  
  
"Yup.  Gotta track down Zhaan's herbs.  You guys have big plans for your day?"  
  
The two soldiers glanced at each other, exchanging some silent communication.  "We thought we might help you," Aeryn said, finally looking at John.  
  
Tauvo explained.  "You haven't had much experience on commerce planets, Crichton.  They can be dangerous if you don't know what to watch out for."  
  
John sat back, astonished.  "I thought you considered this a waste of time."  He'd actually been hoping to convince Aeryn to join him, for the very reasons Crais had given, but he'd never expected her to simply volunteer, much less Tauvo.  
  
Crais shrugged.  "It's not like we've got anything better to do on this wastehole of a world.  Letting the priest mix her potion won't hurt anything, and might save the life of a fellow Peacekeeper.  You were right; that alone is worth a bit of effort."  
  
_Saving any life is with a bit of effort,_ John thought, but didn't say it.  Much as he loved Aeryn and Tauvo, he didn't think they were ready for his radical human xeno-philosophy at this hour of the morning, especially not after the night they'd had.  
  
After some discussion, the three of them decided that it would be more efficient to split up.  Tauvo would go with John, while Aeryn would head in the opposite direction.  It would allow them to cover more of the market area in less time; whichever party found what they were looking for first would then contact the other and they would all meet back at the transport pod.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
This wasn't the first new planet John had been on, of course.  It was, however, the first time since the day he'd fallen down the rabbit hole that he'd had the leisure to look around without pressing, life-or-death problems on his mind.  On Sykar he'd been a prisoner, and there hadn't been much left of their world to look at, anyway.  On Litigara, he'd been consumed by his own grief and hadn't been interested in anything.  And the Royal Planet?  Feh!  Spending two weeks trapped in the palace of Barbie-world, with weddings, statues, Scarrans, and acid vats, had not been conducive to any real sight-seeing.  
  
But here....  He thought his head might twist right off his neck as he turned around and about trying to see everything at once.  Three-headed trelkez, six-legged fellips from Tarsus, vile-smelling perfumes, and a noxious tub of slime that John thought might have made a good industrial lubricant, but which was actually, Tauvo informed him, a culinary delicacy for some local species John didn't care to meet.  
  
Tauvo watched John as they wandered, looking half amused and half annoyed at his child-like curiosity.  "Come on, Crichton," he said at last, dragging him away from yet another fascinating critter on display. "We have an apothecary to find, remember?"  
  
"This is like the ultimate tourist trap," John observed in amused disgust as he followed.  "Ten square miles of kitschy knick-knacks and lousy junk food, all of it massively over-priced, but nothing you might actually need."  
  
A few minutes later, as they rounded a corner onto a new street, Tauvo grabbed John's arm and pulled them both up against the wall.  He looked wary, glancing back around the corner and fingering his gun, suddenly transformed from relaxed visitor into Peacekeeper soldier.    
  
"What is it?" John whispered, reaching for his own pulse pistol.  
  
"We're being followed."  
  
"You sure?"    
  
Tauvo just gave him a look, and John raised his hands as if to ward it off.  "Never mind, forget I asked the stupid question.  Of course you're sure.  So who is it?"  He bent forward to look, but Tauvo pushed him back.    
  
"One of the locals, I think.  I spotted him outside the lodging house as we left."  The Sebacean looked over at him again, this time with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  "Feel like playing a bit of vorcha and malik?"  
  
John shook his head.  "Afraid that didn't translate, bro."  
  
Chagrined, Tauvo explained.  "They're predator and prey species on my home colony.  In most seasons, the vorcha hunt the malik and take them easily.  When the malik have nests, though, they are vicious in the defense of their young.  It is not unheard of for a careless vorcha to become food for hungry malik cubs."  
  
John thought he understood.  "So we turn the tables on our shadow, become the hunters instead of the prey?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"All right, sounds like fun.  What do you want me to do?"  
  
Less than two hundred microts later, John was strolling casually through the market.  Tauvo had described their shadow sufficiently for the less experienced human to spot him, then had broken off and headed in the direction of the nearest public sanitary facilities.  
  
As Crais had suggested, the man following them seemed to have been waiting for this opportunity to catch one of them alone.  He drew closer to Crichton, wandering through the stalls just as nonchalantly as his quarry.    
  
John continued to appear oblivious.  Inwardly, of course, he tried to remain hyper-aware of his pursuer's every movement, adrenaline pumping through his veins with each accelerated heartbeat.  As the pursuer drew closer, John could see he was downright twitchy, eyes shifting and dancing constantly.  He seemed nervous, even frightened, but one thing John had learned during his time out here was not to project human responses onto the aliens he encountered.  This might simply be the way this species always acted.  At the opposite end of the scale, Pa'u Zhaan was the embodiment of serenity no matter what the situation; to her, _everyone_ probably looked tense.  
  
As instructed, John tried act naturally and continue what they'd been doing all along.  He approached one of the shopkeepers and asked for directions to the nearest apothecary or herb shop; this one, like every other one they'd asked, shook his head and claimed no knowledge of such a thing in the area.  
  
Turning away, not so much disappointed as resigned, John nearly jumped out of his skin to find the shadow standing at his elbow.  He clamped his teeth together and managed not to yelp like a dog when its tail gets stepped on.  
  
"Herbs, you seek?  Medicines?  _Drugs?_ "  
  
The man--at least, he assumed it was male--was probably a foot shorter than John was, but may have outweighed him by as much as twenty pounds.  His voice was deep and guttural, which made for an almost amusing contrast to his Yoda-like syntax.  
  
"Yes?" John replied cautiously.   
  
The stocky man bobbed and jiggled, eyes dancing left and right.  "Help you can, I maybe," he chirped brightly.  
  
The offer might have seemed innocent, a helpful stranger who just happened to overhear, had John not known the man was tracking them.  
  
"You can help me all right, pal," he growled, drawing his pulse pistol.  "You can tell me why you've been following us."  
  
The creature's eyes widened and he turned to flee, but Tauvo was already standing behind him, gun in hand, blocking his escape and closing the trap.  The stocky man cowered between them as Tauvo and John marched him out to a nearby alley for a more private discussion.  
  
"Talk, alien," Crais growled, tossing him against the wall.  
  
"Apologies, sirs, no offense meant, I."  
  
"Following Peacekeepers is a dangerous hobby.  I should simply kill you where you stand."  
  
John placed his hand on Tauvo's arm, as if to restrain him.  "Don't be hasty, Lieutenant.  Give Yogurt here a chance to explain himself."  This was John's contribution to the plan.  No one out here had ever heard of the old Earth cliché called 'good cop, bad cop'; it would probably work better on this guy than it would with some hoodlum on Earth who'd watched too much TV.  
  
"Yes, yes!  Please, explain can, I!"  
  
Tauvo did his best to look grim and doubtful--John had a sneaking suspicion that he was mimicking his brother Bialar--but nodded reluctantly.  
  
"Contact did, our world, our commerce directors, you, yes?  Certain items seeking?"  
  
"Yes," John confirmed.  "I was told we could find them here, but we've had no luck."  
  
"Sent me out, my master, to find, to bring to him, you.  Not common, not easy, these herbs you seek.  Find them by chance, might not, you."  
  
Tauvo growled, still looking suspicious.  "And your master, he has these items?"  
  
"Yes, yes!  Sent me, he.  Purchase wish, you, me follow, you?"  
  
John tugged on Tauvo's arm.  "Let us discuss your offer, friend," he said to the small alien.  
  
Tauvo walked with him to the far end of the alley, glaring daggers over his shoulder at the alien still hunched by the wall.  "Do you trust him?" he asked John.  
  
John laughed sharply.  "Not likely.  But he is right about one thing: I did contact the planet over a weeken ago, and I was told Zhaan's list of herbs was available in this city.  It's possible he's on the level."  
  
"Or it could be a trap."  
  
John paused thoughtfully, then shook his head.  "It's up to you, Lieutenant," he said, stressing their difference in rank.  "I'm willing to take the risk, for Leyn's sake.  I owe her."  
  
Crais nodded.  "All right, we'll go along.  But keep your gun handy, just in case."  
  
The alien led them through what seemed like metras of winding streets and narrow alleys, into a part of town that looked dingy and unkempt.  The crowds teeming through the market areas were absent here, and the few people they did see skittered along the building perimeters like frightened rats.  John was getting a sinking feeling that Yogurt's master dealt in more than just medicinal herbs, and that some of his products might be less than legal.  
  
Their guide finally led them into another dark alley, this one a dead end.  He was, if anything, twitchier and more frightened looking that he'd been before, and John was beginning to suspect that it wasn't just a species trait.  He paused halfway down the alley and put a hand on Tauvo's shoulder.  "I've got a bad feeling about this, bro."  
  
Tauvo glanced at him, then followed his gaze to the alien who was knocking frantically on a door at the far end, looking so jittery that he was going to shake himself out of his own shoes any microt.  "I agree.  Something is wrong.  Let's g--oh, frell!"  Tauvo stumbled back, dragging John with him, away from the mouth of the alley.  
  
John snapped around to look, and saw what his friend had seen.  A Scarran.  Huge, hulking, eclipsing the sunlight from the street outside.  Larger than the 'ambassador' back on the Royal Planet, and twice as scary-looking.  
  
Tauvo had his pistol out, firing wildly at the approaching monster.  The shots had no effect, though, and the Scarran kept advancing towards them.  
  
"Suggestions?" John shouted over the din.  
  
"Call for reinforcements!"  
  
John reached for his comms, but before he could activate it he staggered under a blow from behind.  He turned, dazed, to see their alien guide swinging doubled fists towards his head, and all fell into blackness.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
She'd been walking for arns, talking until her voice was hoarse, asking for directions to an apothecary.  Aeryn wondered if the boys were having any better luck, and hoped they hadn't just stopped off for a raslak and forgotten her.  
  
It was only toward mid-afternoon that she finally started to make progress.  One shop owner admitted to a sketchy knowledge of an herb shop several blocks away, though all he could do was point vaguely and wish her luck.  With an indication that her target was close, she conducted a modified cross-hatch search pattern over the next dozen blocks, gleaning clues from passers-by and homing in on a final destination within less than an arn.    
  
The herb shop was tiny, tucked into a narrow space between an arms merchant and a refreshment house.  Given the latter neighbor, she was unsurprised to see Nashtin cleansing pills displayed prominently in the front of the shop as she entered.  She even purchased one, since her dose from that morning had faded during the long march in the heat of the day, before presenting her list of Zhaan's herbs to the proprietor.  
  
The shopkeeper had all but one, though she warned that a couple were old and might not be as potent as they once were.  When Aeryn asked about the last item, the apothecary assured her that she knew another shop where it was available.  She even offered to have her apprentice take the order to the other shop, and then deliver all of her purchases to their transport pod for a small fee.  Aeryn agreed, more than willing to spend a little money to save herself any more walking.  
  
As the young assistant left at a trot carrying her order and the currency to pay for it, Aeryn sat down on a bench in the shade outside the refreshment house and commed Lt. Crais.  
  
There was no answer.  She tried Crichton, with the same result.  "If those two are sitting somewhere drinking the day away, Zhaan's going to have a couple of new patients," she growled under her breath.  "Pilot?"   
  
There was a microt or two delay, and then the calm voice of Moya's servicer came back.  "Yes, Officer Sun?"  
  
"Can you track down Lt. Crais and Crewman Crichton, please?  They aren't answering their comms."  
  
Twenty microts passed, then thirty.  "Pilot?"  
  
"Officer Sun...."  Pilot's voice was somewhat agitated now.  "I fear there may be a problem."  
  
"What kind of problem?"  
  
"There is no response from Lt. Crais' comms, not even a carrier signal."  
  
"And Crichton?"  
  
"The signal from his comms is weak and scrambled, as if it is partially shielded or near some source of heavy interference.  I cannot localize it."  
  
Aeryn took a deep breath, fighting down a surge of fear.  "All right.  Please inform the Admiral of the situation.  I will begin searching immediately.  Can you at least give me an approximate location for Crichton?"  She wished, at that moment, that the traitor Scorpius was still with them, to track down Crichton as he'd done twice before using whatever mysterious means he'd had.  
  
The directions Pilot gave were for an area over a metra away on the opposite side of the market.  An area several blocks wide, as the signal was too sporadic to trace more specifically.  After taking a slight detour to the spaceport to retrieve a heavier pulse rifle, Aeryn marched quickly towards the location Pilot had indicated, ignoring the complaints of her sore feet.    
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_Waking in the hospital room, he has no memory at first of what came before.  What happened?  He remembers...Tauvo, and Aeryn.  Drinking himself senseless.  Everything thereafter is fuzzy.  Is he still drunk?  Hallucinating?  
  
Whoa...Dad.    
  
No, not Dad.  Not Earth.  Can't be.    
  
Mind-frell.  Damn it, been here, done this, got the frelling t-shirt.  
  
Out!  Gotta get out!  Let me go!  
  
Wait...Aeryn?  What's Aeryn doing here?  What the frell is going on?_  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
It took less than half an arn to reach the center point of the area Pilot had identified.  The admiral had confirmed her decision to search with an order to do just that, and had begun his own efforts with the planetary authorities.  She held little hope for any results from that quarter, but as long as he was distracted by that, he was the perfect superior officer, letting her do her job without interference.  
  
This wasn't part of the main market area frequented by visitors.  She saw only locals, a stocky race of common laborers, and not many of them.  But for all of that, Aeryn felt her heart sinking as she looked around her.  The area was a nightmare:  too large, too many places to hide.  I would take monens to search it on her own.  A mission like this called for the deployment of at least a company.  
  
"Pilot," she called up to the ship.    
  
"Yes, Officer Sun?"  
  
"I'm going to need some help.  Can you please scan the area for anything...unusual?"  
  
"You will have to be more specific, Officer Sun."  
  
"Frell, I don't know, I'm not a tech.  Maybe.... Can Moya resolve biological life signs clearly enough to pick out species differences?"  
  
There was silence for a moment.  "I...believe so."  Pilot sounded tentative.    
  
"All right, run a scan of this area and look for patterns that don't fit.  Everyone I've seen so far belongs to the single native race, so both Crichton and Crais should stand out as different from the rest."  
  
"Very well, Officer Sun.  The scans will take approximately five hundred microts."  
  
"Fine."  Well, actually, it wasn't fine.  Every microt they delayed made it more likely that whatever trouble her friends had encountered would turn fatal, or worse.  But berating Pilot would not make the scans run faster.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_He finally gives in to the absurdity after his meeting with the blue shrink and joins the crazy astronaut wearing Tauvo's face for a trip to the nearest beer.  
  
After all, if he's going to get his mind frelled with, he might as well enjoy what few perks he can get.  They're getting the details right this time, and he's missed the taste of a good brew.  
  
The bar, of course, is just another freak show.  He rocks back on his heels at the door when he sees Scorpius on stage.  He's playing the drums, and Pilot is there too, with a set of bongos.  John blinks, shrugs, and steps across to the bar.  The bartender is busy, tossing bottles left and right like a master juggler.  He's dressed appropriately in a white shirt and black vest.  The only false note in the costume is the metal mask covering half of his face.  
  
"Hey Stark," John says, leaning his elbows on the bar.  "How're you doin' man?  Haven't seen you since that joint on Litigara, after we blasted out of Scorpy's Gammak base."  
  
The Stark figure looks at John, confused.  "Sorry, friend, must have me mixed up with someone else," he drawls in a deep, Texas twang.  "Ain't never been to no town called 'Ligitara'."  
  
"Oh.  Right, sorry.  My mistake.  Forgot you weren't real there for a microt.  Can I get a couple of beers?"_  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn caught and interrogated a couple of the area's inhabitants, questioning them about any Sebaceans they'd seen recently.  None of the frightened civilians were willing to admit any knowledge, not even with Aeryn's pulse rifle pointed at their heads.  Which meant one of two things.  Either they were honestly ignorant, or there was something around scarier than she was.  
  
When Pilot finally called back, the news seemed no better.  
  
"My apologies, Officer Sun.  There is only one life sign I can clearly read within a half a metra of your location that does not match the local population, and that is yourself."  
  
Aeryn's stomach clenched tighter.  That could mean they were both dead.  
  
"Wait...you said ' _clearly_ read'.  Are there life signs in the area that you can't read clearly?"  
  
"Yes..." Pilot replied tentatively.  "At least, I think so.  There is an area where my readings are distorted; I am unable to identify or pinpoint the location of any of the life signs there."  
  
"Is it possible that this is the same distortion affecting Crichton's comms?"  
  
"Quite possible.  It would defy the laws of probability to find two such unusual phenomena in close proximity."  
  
"All right," Aeryn said, determination returning.  "Direct me to the location of this distortion.  I'll leave my comms channel open, and hopefully you'll be able to tell when I'm approaching the source by its effect on my signal."  
  
"Dekka 2, premna 3, lerg 2.  Less than five hundred motras from your current location."  
  
"Thank you, Pilot."  Aeryn did a quick, rough directional computation and set off at a jog towards her target.  
  
"It is possible, Officer Sun, that the distortion effect will prevent any communications at all when you are in direct proximity to the source."  
  
Aeryn didn't break stride.  "Fine.  When I lose your signal, I'll know I'm close."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_He runs away from the specter of his dead and disappointed mother in the hospital room, only to encounter a nightmare far worse at the bar where he goes to hide.  
  
"John?"  
  
The weak, agonized voice is all too familiar.  It haunts his dreams.  John closes his eyes, refusing to look, refusing to let it be real.  
  
It is the cry of the baby that finally forces him to turn around.  
  
"John, help me...."  
  
Gilina.  Her tech issue jumpsuit is stained crimson from the fatal wound in her stomach.  She staggers across the empty room, eyes glazed, carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket.  The cries emanate from there, increasing in volume.  
  
"No," he pleads, rising and backing away.  "You're not real."  
  
"John, why did you do it?" the ghost demands.  "Why did you let us die?"  
  
"Stay away from me!  You're not real!  You're dead!"  
  
The baby's cries hitch and choke for a microt before resuming.  The blood-stained mother continues to advance.  "If you'd told him what he wanted to know, we'd be alive now."  
  
John turns, tries to escape, though whether from the vision or from his own guilt, he's not sure.  He stumbles, falls over a table and sprawls helpless on the floor.  
  
The macabre figure of Gilina and her baby, like a perverted depiction of the Madonna and Child, looms over him.  A thin stream of blood is now running down the woman's face.  She uncovers the child to show him, and John screams louder.  The baby, his son, has a small black hole in the center of his forehead, leaking blood onto the blankets.  The small, blue eyes gaze at him accusingly.  
  
"No...please...this is cruel.  Please stop...."  
  
"You killed us, John."  
  
John clenches his eyes shut, tears running down his face.  "Please, stop..."  
  
"You may as well have pulled the trigger yourself."  
  
"Noooooo!"  A final, desperate shove pushes the nightmare vision away and John runs.  He no longer cares where._  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
"Pilot, how am I doing?"  She was approaching the area for the second time, from a different direction, attempting to triangulate the center of the interference.  
  
"Interf... ence increasing, Offic... Sun."  Pilot's voice faded in and out through the growing static.  "... new information... relay to you."  
  
Aeryn stopped moving.  "New information, Pilot?  You're breaking up; can you increase signal strength?"  
  
A pause.  "Is that better?"  
  
The static was still present, but more of the words were getting through.  "Yes, Pilot.  You said you had new information?"  
  
"Indeed...ficer Sun.  I have run several scans of the area... cluding one for thermal variances.  There is... building directly ahead of you which reads...warmer than...surrounding environment.... temperature does not appear immediately dangerous.... could affect your coordination with prolonged exposure.  I recommend caution."  
  
"Understood."  
  
She gazed at the building directly ahead.  This was where Crais and Crichton had to be, somewhere inside.  It appeared to be a factory of some type, probably abandoned for many cycles if the rust and trash littering the area were any indication.    
  
Without further pause for reflection, Aeryn shrugged her pulse rifle into a more comfortable position and set out to find her friends.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_Great, he thinks, as the neural clone he just dubbed 'Harvey' vanishes into thin air, leaving him still cuffed to the chair and helpless.  Captured by a Scarran, if Harvey is to be believed.  He can't remember.  Is he alone?  Are his friends prisoners as well, caught up in this same insanity?  
  
A chip.  In his head.    
  
He remembers now--the pain, stabbing through the shocked numbness he'd been swallowed by after Gilina was shot.  He never saw Scorpy coming, his eyes locked on the still form sprawled on the floor, but when the spike slammed into the base of his skull, his vision exploded into a flash of light.  And then...darkness.  His next clear memory is of the radiant Aeryn Sun.  
  
He needs to get out of here.  He needs to get the damn chip out of his head.  
  
A microt later, all leisure for such ponderings vanishes under the final assault on his reason._  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_Aeryn, Zhaan, and Betal--or at least their psychotic duplicates in this chamber of horrors--hover over him, taunting him with the deepest desires of his subconscious...and a few things he's pretty sure his subconscious has never heard of either.  Torn between disgust and desire, he can't muster the will to even struggle.  
  
Until a fourth figure enters his line of sight, and a shudder of black revulsion overwhelms him.  
  
The admiral--or rather, D. Logan--is dressed, if one can call it that, in a leather bikini and a full black hood, reminiscent of Scorpius'.  The vast expanse of pasty flesh between is exposed, naked, bouncing and jiggling with every perverted movement.  
  
The fat man shoos the eager women away and stands over him, raising the small whip he holds in one hand, and begins 'punishing' John for all the disrespectful comments he's ever made.  
  
John struggles not to vomit, rips the metal rail off the hospital bed in a fit of panicked strength, and flees._  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_He wanders through the corridors in a daze, the metal bed rail still dragging from the handcuff on his wrist.  Voices assail him, disturbing and grotesque images dance before his eyes, but he no longer has the capacity to react.  His mind is reaching a saturation point.  Soon, it will spill over and his reason will seep away like water on sand.  
  
He struggles to remember what the neural clone said.   
  
Concentrate.  
  
Focus.  
  
Remember reality.  
  
But what is reality anymore?  
  
Wandering outside, blinking at the simulated sunlight, he doesn't see the car come at him until too late.  The impact sends him flying.  
  
Rattled but essentially unhurt--unsurprising, given that he's already walked away from a head-on with the semi today--he looks up to see the cop wearing Captain Crais' face reciting some warped version of the Miranda warning.  The words slip through his grasp without leaving any meaning behind.  
  
The cop loses patience, and a sharp kick to the head sends John flying backwards...into the cushioned seat of Gary Ragel's Mustang convertible.  
  
It's dark, the sky now filled with stars, but John feels no surprise.  Nothing can shock him at this point.  
  
Or so he thinks.  
  
"John, there's something I really feel I should tell you."  The voice is high-pitched and effeminate, but still familiar, so John turns to look.  
  
Tauvo Crais, aka Gary Ragel.  But all wrong.  Oh, so very wrong.  
  
It's not just the dress--a short-skirted number with spaghetti straps and pink flowers--nor the padded mockeries filling out the ample chest measurement.  It's not even the long, platinum-blonde wig, harshly contrasting with the still-present dark eyebrows and beard.  
  
Even in his lightest moments, Lt. Tauvo Crais has never lost the aura of dangerous competence that screams 'Peacekeeper'.  And that isn't strictly a male thing; Aeryn Sun exudes the same air of lethal power, tightly controlled.  
  
"I have these urges, you see.  Urges I can't often satisfy."  Gary's face moves gradually closer, presuming to greater and greater intimacy.  Despite the darkness, John can see he's wearing eye shadow and lipstick.  "My brother wouldn't understand, you see.  Our colonial upbringing left him with some odd provincial prejudices."  
  
This 'Gary Ragel' persona lacks all traces of Tauvo's inner strength.  It is entirely subsumed by the extreme cliché of effeminate helplessness.  John feels shivers running up his spine, lacking all of his usual aplomb and tolerance.  He's been hit on by men a couple of times--didn't much like it, though he wasn't offended either--but he's never reacted with horror like this.  
  
Ragel's face is mere inches from his ear now, and he can feel the man's breath on his neck.  "You said Aeryn was just a friend, right?"  
  
John fumbles.  "Well, yeah, I suppose, but--"  
  
"Oh good," Ragel breathes.  "You see, I've been hoping that you and I could be...more than friends.  We could even invite Aeryn to join in, make it a real party!"  
  
"Oh, nonononono," John protests, drawing away, only to be yanked back by a strong hand clasping his arm.  
  
"Oh, yes."  Suddenly the danger is back in Tauvo's hijacked face.  
_  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
_It gets worse.  
  
The blue shrink.  And his mother....  
  
No!  He refuses to think about that.  It never happened.  Couldn't happen.  
  
And then, suddenly, all of the quiet, insidious subversions of his sanity give way to noise and wild gyrations on the floor of a dance club.  John laughs, partly out of relief to have escaped that last nightmare, but mostly an outward sign of an internal shift.  The fear and confusion are giving way to anger at last.  
  
How dare these bastards, whoever they are, do this to him?  
  
The tempo of the music increases along with the volume, and the voices taunt him, urging him to let go and dance.  But to do so would be to admit defeat, loose his grasp on his own mind and descend into the insanity that beckons.  
  
Rage builds, pushing aside all temptation to surrender.  He wants to fight back, blast his way free of this frelling Hotel California and kill something.  
  
Physical violence will accomplish nothing.  He's already learned that in spades.  Nothing he sees or touches here is real; the attack is on his mind and that is where his battles must be waged.  
  
The disco ball on the ceiling provides focus, something to concentrate on and block out the sounds and images swirling around him.  His anger gives him strength, and he embraces it like he's never done before in his life.  As they had been in the Aurora chair, powerful emotions are the key to resistance, repelling the invasion of his innermost thoughts.  
  
Pressure builds, threatening to implode his skull.  He fights, building his own pressure of rage from within.  Something has to give.  
  
Crescendo.  Louder, brighter, hotter, stronger.  Pulse pounding, muscles straining, eyes bleeding.  
  
And then, everything explodes._  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
There was pain, then darkness, and for an instant John Crichton thought he was dead.  
  
Then sound filtered back into his abused ears, a reptilian roar blasting through the silence, followed by pulse fire.  John fought to wrench his eyes open, wanting to see the danger he faced even if he was powerless for the moment to fight or flee.  
  
There was no doubt in his mind that this was reality.  He hurt, weighed down by a physical and mental fatigue that spoke of exertion beyond normal limits.  
  
A Scarran loomed over him, not more than a body length away and backlit by burning control panels.  The huge reptiloid seemed little concerned by the flames, and only slightly annoyed by the pulse fire leaving smudge spots on its armored uniform.   
  
Waves of heat rippled through the air from the creature's extended arm towards the concealed assailant.  The pulse fire ceased, the attacker presumably ducking for cover.  
  
The temperature was rising, both from the electrical fires rapidly spreading across the walls and the residual heat from the Scarran's retaliatory attacks.  John knew that his would-be rescuer--presumably some member of Moya's complement, perhaps even Aeryn or Tauvo--would soon start to feel the effects.  Even early stage heat delirium could lead to a fatal hesitation or mistake.  
  
He had to do something.  
  
Unfortunately, given his current physical condition--half a step above dead, if that--the Scarran was quicker.  John had managed to turn over and had barely gotten his hand wrapped around the butt of his pistol when his captor noticed the movement.  Two strides carried the hulking alien across the distance, and John felt himself flung into the air like a bungee jumper.  
  
"If you value this one," rumbled the deep voice of the Scarran, who was now holding John mostly upright in front of his body as a shield, "you will hold your fire, Peacekeeper."  
  
John's heart sank.  He knew the rules.  Not for nothing had he spent all those months memorizing the articles and sub-sections of the Peacekeeper codes.  Hostages were officially considered casualties, and were to be treated as such, their safety or welfare no longer any consideration.  It prevented enemies from using captured soldiers to shield themselves from attack, since such tactics gained them nothing and only made the attacking Peacekeepers angrier.    
  
Apparently, though, this Scarran hadn't read the rulebook.  At any microt, pulse fire would rain down upon him once again, regardless of John's presence.    
  
With the flick of a couple of switches and the depression of a button, John set his pulse pistol, still in the holster,  to overload.  He kept his hand over it to muffle the sound.  If he was going to die anyway, he could at least do his best to take the Scarran with him.  Pistol fire might be useless against his armored hide, but maybe the explosion would make the bastard sit up and take notice; if it didn't kill him outright, it might give the hidden Peacekeeper an opening to finish him.  
  
The expected pulse fire, however, never materialized.  The Scarran's threat hung in the air, and John wondered what the concealed soldier was waiting for.  
  
Slowly, cautiously, a figure separated itself from the shadows and resolved into Aeryn Sun, still holding her pulse rifle at the ready.  The expression on her face was strained.  
  
"Release him," she said, her voice low and shaking with emotion.  
  
The Scarran hissed, and John felt a wash of heat scald his left ear.  Turning slightly, he saw the horse-like head leaning over his shoulder.  
  
He acted almost without thought.  Yanking the pistol out of his holster as the warning whine rose towards critical, he shoved it, muzzle first, into the monster's gaping maw.  
  
The rest seemed to happen in slow motion.  John could see Aeryn's eyes widen in surprise as the Scarran reared back.  The huge arm across his chest let go, and John fell forward, off balance.  
  
He hit the ground, yelled "Get down!" to Aeryn, and tried to scramble for cover himself.  The blast sent him sprawling back to the ground before he'd gone a single step, and stabbing pains shot across his back and legs.  Then darkness reigned once more.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
When she finally tracked down her quarry after arns of fruitless searching, Aeryn Sun took one look and swore, silently and at length, in every language she had ever heard.  
  
A Scarran.  Frelling hezmana.    
  
She gripped the rifle, intensely relieved that she'd taken the time to retrieve it from the transport pod but wishing at the same time that it was something else.  Something bigger.    
  
A lot bigger.  
  
Scarran hides were thick, and extremely heat resistant.  Pulse pistols were worse than useless.  Her pulse rifle was only marginally better; it would take several shots in succession to burn through and do any damage.  
  
John Crichton stood, transfixed, in the center of the room, surrounded by some kind of energy field which the nearby Scarran was manipulating.  Though she'd never see it before, Aeryn suspected that this was one of the standard Scarran torture devices she'd once been briefed about.  A neural hyper-stimulator, intended to drive the victim insane and completely break down his mental defenses before a telepathic scan.  
  
Standard procedure for a situation such as this would be to retreat and call for reinforcements.  Reinforcements, however, were sadly lacking here.  And even if they weren't, Aeryn couldn't make herself leave and abandon John to this.  
  
She crept closer, an easy task while the Scarran was so distracted by his victim.  "Increasing to kelvo eight," she heard him state for whatever recording device was keeping track of the interrogation.  
  
Crichton's body convulsed under the onslaught, and Aeryn could wait no longer.  Breaking cover, she opened fire, not at the Scarran but at his equipment.  
  
Pulse fire ripped efficiently through the delicate circuitry, shorting out panels and setting the entire console aflame.  The energy field surrounding Crichton flared once and then winked out, leaving the human to collapse to the floor in a boneless heap.  
  
Now she redirected her fire onto John's captor, raining shots down upon his back as fast as she could depress the trigger.  
  
The Scarran roared, enraged and provoked by the stinging bolts.  Spinning, he saw her, and with a growl of menace raised his arm and let fly with a wave of heat from his own body.  No Scarran was ever truly unarmed while he still possessed the heat gland.  
  
Aeryn ducked behind a pillar, wincing as the wave brushed by her.  Sweat was already breaking out across her back and forehead.  
  
Twice more she broke cover for an instant, holding the Scarran at bay, then ducking back as the next wave of heat flew at her.  She could feel the temperature rising all around her, and her shirt was growing damp.  
  
There was a pause.  Listening, Aeryn caught the rustle of fabric, a low growl, and then a grunt of surprise issuing from something other than a Scarran throat.  
  
"If you value this one, you will hold your fire, Peacekeeper."  
  
Peeking cautiously around the edge of the pillar, Aeryn saw the Scarran, now standing with Crichton's body held up like a shield in front of his body.  She couldn't tell, at that distance, if the human was conscious; he hung limply from the Scarran's grip.  
  
Procedure said to ignore him and continue the attack.  Procedure said that hostages were nothing and prisoners were casualties of war.  
  
Procedure could go frell itself.  
  
She stood up and stepped out of her hiding place, keeping her rifle pointed squarely at the Scarran's head.  She couldn't just shoot John.  Not after all the effort she'd put into finding him.    
  
"Release him," she ordered, though the tightness in her throat turned the command into more of a plea.  She heard the Scarran hiss in amusement, and then everything happened too fast.  
  
"Get down!" John called out, but she was already diving for cover, her instincts having identified the wail of a pulse pistol about to go critical.  The explosion threw her to the ground, her ears ringing, but she turned quickly with her rifle leading the way, just in case the Scarran had somehow survived.  
  
She was just in time to see the headless corpse topple over.  
  
Crichton was unconscious when she reached him, his clothes smoldering in several places where burning shrapnel had struck him.  She smothered the burning spots with her hand, scalding herself in the process and feeling blood well up through the scorched holes.  She ignored the wounds for the moment, though, and started dragging him out on his back, away from the flames and heat.  
  
She stopped at last in a corridor that was mercifully cool, though she could still smell the smoke, when Crichton groaned and tried to wrench his arms out of her hands.  
  
"John?" she called out to him, holding his face between her hands and forcing him to look at her.  "John, talk to me!"  
  
His mouth gaped open and closed several times with no sound as his eyes wandered, but then he seemed to focus and see her.  
  
"A-Aeryn?  Are you...really here?"  
  
She nodded.  "Searched half this world for you."  
  
He glanced around at the featureless gray walls.  "Where am I?"  
  
"Still on the commerce planet, but underground.  You were captured by a Scarran.  Do you remember what happened?"  
  
He started to shake his head, then stopped, eyes narrowing.  "I remember...he said...trying to break me.  Standard method of interrogation."  
  
Aeryn hadn't realized that John had gotten that briefing, too.    
  
John looked away, focusing on some point behind Aeryn's shoulder.  She turned, but there was nothing there.  He tried to speak further, but it was as if the words were fighting him.  "He said...Sc-Sc-Scorpy...."  
  
"Scorpius did something?  Did he betray you to the Scarrans?"  
  
"P-p-put...a...neur...neu... a n-n-n-n-n...."  The incomprehensible stuttering faded gradually into a confused blankness, as if John had forgotten what he was going to say.    
  
"John?  What about Scorpius?"  
  
"Huh?  What about him?"  
  
"You were saying he'd done something."  
  
John's forehead crinkled, then he shook his head.  "Dunno.  Weird trip."  He pushed back with his elbows, trying to sit up, but quickly dropped back with a wince and a groan.  
  
"You're hurt," Aeryn pointed out, and John rolled his eyes.  
  
"Thank you, Dr. Fairchild, for that brilliant diagnosis."  
  
She gently turned him over, ignoring the typically incomprehensible retort, and examined his wounds.  "You got hit by shrapnel in your shoulder and your left leg, but it doesn't look too serious.  I imagine the burns hurt worse."  
  
John's voice was strained.  "Probably right."  
  
The smoke was starting to get thicker, rolling down the hall along the ceiling.  "Do you think you can walk?  We've got to get out of here before the whole place burns down."  
  
John grunted and tried to push himself up; Aeryn helped lever him to his feet and steadied him, then started to lead him away.  "Wait," John said, lurching to a stop.  "Where's Tauvo?"  
  
Aeryn shook her head.  "I don't know.  Not here; I searched this whole building before I found you.  There was no sign of him."  
  
John grew panicked.  "You're sure?  He could be back there, in that fire, or chained up nearby...."  
  
"I'm sure."  She pulled them forward again, limping awkwardly towards the stairwell back to the surface level.  "I only saw you, and there was no place nearby to conceal anyone else.  Was Crais with you when you were captured?"    
  
John was silent, lost in the struggle to remember, as they dragged themselves up the stairs and out onto the street.  Smoke was already leaking out of some of the first floor windows.    
  
"I...think so," John said, the strain showing on his face as Aeryn lowered him back to the ground.  "We were shopping for Zhaan's herbs...someone was tailing us."  
  
"The Scarran?"  
  
"No...no, it was some weaselly little alien, one of the natives, I think.  Tauvo and I nabbed him.  Son of a bitch spun some line of bull about helping us find the herbs we needed."  
  
"And then?" Aeryn prompted.  
  
"I remember...an alley.  Dark, dead end.  I think that's where they got us.  You think Tauvo got away?"  John's eyes were hopeful, pleading with Aeryn to confirm his guess.  
  
She shook her head sadly.  "I don't think so.  Pilot couldn't find his comms signal--"  
  
John interrupted, fighting to get back to his feet.  "His comms were probably damaged in the fight.  Bet he's been doing exactly the same as you, trying to find me, or find you.  We gotta go find him."  
  
"Crichton--"  
  
"Which way to the market?  I think if I can find where we started, I can retrace our steps to the alley.  We should start there."  
  
Aeryn saw blind determination in Crichton's face, a refusal to accept any possibility but his own theory.  "John," she tried again gently, but he plowed right over her.  
  
"Get me to the market, Aeryn.  We gotta go find him."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Two arns later.  It was long past nightfall, and Aeryn was exhausted, using the last dregs of trained willpower to keep herself going.  John looked at least as bad as she did, and probably felt worse, but he pushed them forward at a desperate pace.  Aeryn was amazed; half a solar day of Scarran torture ought to have had him seeking a med bay and heavy painkillers.  Something was driving him.  
  
John kept up a running monologue the whole time, arguing with himself about which direction, which landmarks, backtracking and retracing half a dozen times, until he finally found a place that seemed familiar.  
  
"There it is!" John finally cried, his voice breaking with fatigue.  He lurched into a limping jog, disappearing through a shadowed opening along the dark and deserted street.  Aeryn followed at a more subdued pace.  
  
Rounding the corner some microts later, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the even deeper gloom of the alley.  Crichton was easy to spot, bright against the black in his light brown jacket and pants.  He was kneeling near the back wall, perfectly still, hunched over something on the ground.  
  
She had to get within five motras before she could see the form of a man dressed in black, lying sprawled in front of Crichton.  Another body, this one an alien, lay a few motras away with blackened pulse wounds showing how it died.  
  
She felt a flare of hope at the realization that the first figure, lying with the human's hand resting on his chest, was indeed Lt. Crais, and he was breathing.  Then she got close enough to see his face.  
  
Ghastly burns and blisters marred the once-handsome features.  One eye was swollen shut, but the other stared sightlessly at the sky overhead.  His clothing was charred, and the comms badge clipped to his shoulder was seared to slag.  No wonder Pilot hadn't been able to get a signal.  
  
The body did indeed still draw breath.  Harsh, shallow, rattling gasps.  A mockery of life where none truly existed any longer.  
  
"It's the living death," John murmured without looking up.  "Isn't it?"  
  
Aeryn swallowed, unable to find her voice.  Finally, she managed to choke out a whispered "Yes."  
  
She cursed herself silently.  In her earlier diversion to the transport pod for the pulse rifle, she had neglected to take a medical kit.  A tragic oversight, in this case.  A kill shot would have been the cleanest and most painless solution.  
  
She didn't have one, though, and she refused to force a man she had called friend to suffer that long before being granted release.  He'd waited far too long already.  
  
But first she had to deal with Crichton; she feared he might fight her on this, insist that somehow Tauvo Crais could be saved.  Kneeling down next to him, she expected to see grief and tears, the emotions she'd been trained to set aside.  She'd seen him in this situation before, after all, when Gilina died.  
  
She turned to look at the human's face and was shocked to see nothing there.  Her own stoic mask was reflected back at her from John's usually expressive face.  What was wrong?  Did he not realize what she had to do?  
  
"John," she said gently, "I need to--"  
  
"Give me your gun."  
  
The voice was quiet, mild, with no more inflection than if he'd asked her to pass a plate of food cubes.  "What?"  She had to have heard him wrong.  
  
"Give me your damn pistol, Aeryn."  There was emotion there now.  She could see it just beneath the surface, straining at the seams of John's fragile control, and she knew what he was asking.  
  
"John, I'll do it.  You don't have to--"  
  
"Yes," he snapped, turning to face her with burning eyes.  "I do."  
  
It wasn't grief he was holding in check, she realized.  It was pure rage, deep and powerful enough to burn this planet to a cinder.  
  
"He was my best friend, Aeryn," John explained in a tight, thin voice.  "He...died...trying to protect me.  That's the only reason he was here; he knew I couldn't take care of myself for shit."  
  
Aeryn drew her pistol from the holster slowly, then paused, uncertain.  "John...."  
  
He looked back down at Tauvo's ruined face and closed his eyes.  "It's my responsibility, Aeryn.  I owe him so much, and this is all I have left to give him."  His bloodshot, intense blue gaze turned back to bore into her in wordless supplication.  
  
She handed over her pulse pistol.  John sat holding it, frozen in place, for a long time.  He said something in a quiet, prayerful voice, perhaps a plea for forgiveness, and raised the weapon.  
  
Aeryn stood back and watched as the once-innocent human prepared to deliberately take a life for the first time.  


  



	5. Welcome to the Machine

_"It doesn't look like we're gonna get out of this one, and if we're gonna go down, I wanna go down swinging." -- John Crichton_  
  
  
  
Aeryn Sun stepped out onto the platform overlooking the Prowler flight deck, where the fighters were serviced and prepped for launch.  She tried to look as if she belonged there, though it had been nearly two cycles since the last time she flew her Prowler out of this hangar.  
  
She saw a few familiar faces among the pilots and techs, but at first could not find the one person she was looking for.  Then he stepped out from behind a Prowler on the far side of the bay.  Pausing, he spoke to a tech with her arms shoulder-deep inside the hetch drive assembly.  
  
He looked awful.  Gaunt, tense, eyes dark with exhaustion.  Had the man slept at all since their return from Moya and the Uncharteds?  Certainly he hadn't been in his quarters any of the times she'd gone looking for him.    
  
Nodding in response to something the tech said, John meandered off across the flight line towards another Prowler sitting at one of the refueling stations.  
  
From her position several motras above the flight deck, Aeryn saw the danger before anyone else could have.  An impatient pilot, eager to be out on patrol, had rolled his ship out of its slot at the rear of the bay and begun taxiing full-speed towards the open bay doors.  Due to angles and obstructions, neither the pilot nor John could see the other yet, but Aeryn could see that their courses were going to intersect within microts.  
  
"Look out!" she cried, striving to make herself heard across the vast and noisy space.  
  
John turned.  Whether it was due to her warning or the fact that he could suddenly see the rapier-pointed nose of the Prowler bearing down upon him, she wasn't sure.  He had only a microt or so to react, and Aeryn's heart sank when she saw him freeze in place, directly in the Prowler's path.  
  
Then, just when it seemed too late, John flashed into motion, diving and rolling across the deck out of harm's way faster than she would have thought him capable of, out of harm's way.  
  
The Prowler continued on without pausing, its pilot either unaware or, more likely, unconcerned by his close call.  Aeryn remembered occasions in her past when something of the sort had occurred, and recalled how little she herself had cared at the time about the lives of the mere techs who cared for her ship.  
  
Rushing down the ramp and across the deck, taking care not to encounter similar hazards, she reached John just as he was getting to his feet.  She came up from behind him, and as she got closer she could hear him muttering under his breath.  The words weren't clear enough to understand, but the tone of voice was familiar enough to set off alarms.  
  
"John?"  She touched his shoulder.  
  
He spun, slapping her arm away and dropping into a practiced defensive stance.  Thanks to his agitated state, it took a microt for him to recognize her and relax.  Something behind his eyes lit up and he almost smiled, but then he pushed it away and settled his face into a neutral expression.  
  
"Aeryn."  He looked down at his grey jumpsuit and brushed off some imaginary dust before looking back up at her.  
  
"Surprised to see me?"  It had been almost a monen since their return.  John had made no effort to contact her during that time, and she hadn't even been able to find him until now.  It was a big ship.  
  
"Nah."  He shrugged and turned away, continuing on his former path towards the refueling station.  "I figured you'd track me down eventually, though I had hoped you'd take the hint."  He examined the readings on the panel and turned the power switch back to standby.  
  
Aeryn crossed her arms, leaning against the panel next to him and glaring at his unresponsive face.  "Hint?"  It was frelling amazing how little sense the human could make, even when the individual words translated.  "John, I haven't seen you since we got back from Moya.  I was told you'd been promoted, reassigned--"  
  
John burst into harsh laughter.  "Yeah.  _Promoted_.  Sub-Officer John Crichton, at your service."  He sketched a small, self-deprecating bow.  "You know something, Officer Sun?  Our dear Captain Crais has a very twisted sense of humor."  He grimaced and looked away, glancing around at the techs and pilots milling about the bay.  
  
"Why?  What happened?"  The news of his promotion had come as something of a shock when she heard of it.  It typically took several cycles, or else some act of exceptional valor, for a crewman to rise to sub-officer.  
  
John started to speak, then shut his mouth with a snap.  He shook his head.  "You shouldn't be here, Aeryn.  It's not safe."  He turned away.  
  
She was about to make some comment about stating the obvious, considering what had just nearly happened, when John made a gesture that froze her blood in her veins.  He tried to make it seem like he was merely combing his hair back, but that irritated brush past his ear was too hauntingly familiar to mistake.  Added to the muttering a few microts ago, now she was sure.  
  
"You never went to the med bay, did you?  You're still having visions."  It had been weekens after Tauvo's death before she confronted him about his increasingly erratic behavior.  He'd finally admitted, after several attempts to put her off, that he was having occasional hallucinations of Scorpius, as if the half-breed were speaking to him.  She'd agreed not to report it, on the condition that he would seek treatment immediately upon their return to the carrier.  
  
John shook his head, though whether he was confirming her guess about the med bay or trying to deny the visions altogether, she couldn't be sure.  
  
"John, you promised you'd get help.  If you're unfit for duty--"  
  
"I'm fine, Aeryn.  It's under control."  He walked away, leaving her scrambling to catch up.    
  
"You are _not_ fine, Crichton, not if you're seeing and hearing things that aren't there.  It's dangerous, especially in this place, where you can't afford any distractions."  
  
He whirled around and pushed her against the nearest vertical bulkhead.  His voice dropped to a guttural whisper.  "Fine, go ahead and report me.  Give Crais the excuse he needs to finish the job!"    
  
Aeryn rocked back at John's violence and intensity.  "What are you--"  
  
He placed a hand against the wall on either side of her and brought his face close to hers.  She could feel his breath against her neck.  "You want to know why I'm stuck down here instead of back in my lab?  Crais.  He blames me for getting Tauvo killed.  Hell, he wanted to rip me apart with his bare hands, but he couldn't, not with the admiral looking over his shoulder.  So he decided to screw me instead."  
  
"Screw...you?"  
  
"By 'promoting' me.  The techs and specialists working the Prowler bays have the most dangerous non-combat jobs in the entire fleet, Aeryn.  They usually assign the job of supervising them to disgraced officers as a demotion; it's considered beneath a soldier's dignity.  'Grot work', I think you'd call it.  Crais actually had to promote me to give me the job.  He can't kill me himself, so he decided to humiliate me--not that I give a damn about that--and probably hopes I'll get myself killed here and save him the trouble."  
  
Aeryn had been afraid that the captain might react badly to Tauvo's death.  She'd known the Crais brothers were close; it was fairly common for siblings to be recruited together, and the emotional ties, while strongly discouraged, persisted in many cases despite all official efforts.  It was not unheard-of for a surviving sibling to want vengeance for a brother or sister's death, even when, as in this case, it was grossly misdirected.    
  
It took a microt for Aeryn to recall what had triggered John's sudden revelation.  She put a hand on his face.  "But why haven't you seen the med techs?  No matter what the captain did, it doesn't change the fact that you need help."  
  
John backed away from her touch, visibly retreating back inside himself and crossing his arms over his chest.  "Aeryn, think about it.  If I report this little problem of mine, it'll be all the excuse Crais needs to do what he wanted to do in the first place.  I'd be declared irrevocably damaged and 'retired' within a solar day!"  
  
She stopped short.  As much as she hated to admit it, John might be right.  Transit madness, if that was what John had, was a perfectly curable condition that afflicted a small percentage of conscripted soldiers.  Sebacean soldiers, that is.  But in an alien, especially one out of favor with command?  Would they even bother to try?  
  
John stepped closer again.  "Really, Aeryn, I'm okay.  It's not even as bad as it was before."  
  
She cocked her head and made a show of looking him up and down.  "Your appearance says otherwise."  
  
John smiled ruefully and shrugged, then turned his eye to something over her shoulder.  The smile vanished.  
  
Turning to look, Aeryn saw a pair of Prowler pilots eyeing them disapprovingly.  
  
"Aeryn," John said quietly.  "You should go.  I may be on Crais' shit list, but I don't want to put you there, too.  That's why I've tried to stay away from you."  
  
She gave him a scathing look and prepared to let him know exactly what she thought of that.  She could look after herself, frell him.  But before she could formulate the words, someone called her name.  
  
"Sun!"  She turned to see Vikko Kranda, now a senior officer and squadron leader, approaching from behind her.  "You come down here to get a look at some real pilots?"   
  
It was good to see him; he had been a member of her unit back when she was flying Prowlers, and a long-time, friendly rival.  "Of course," she called back, matching his teasing tone.  "Have you seen any?"  
  
Kranda laughed.  
  
Aeryn turned back to John, wanting to finish their conversation before she got caught up in reminiscences, only to find that he had taken advantage of her momentary distraction to slip away.  
  
_Frelling human._  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Sitting by an artificial lake in one of the carrier's forty or so planetary terrains, John felt he could breathe again.  It was almost like being back on Earth, except that the sky was an arching roof of metal, and it was too quiet.  There were no mosquitoes biting, no songbirds calling from the treetops, no ducks in the lake.  Not quite real, but as close as he could get in this artificial world he now inhabited.  
  
He came to these huge chambers on nights when sleep eluded him, or was simply too painful to contemplate.  Few ventured here during the arns when the deck lighting dimmed to simulate a planetary night, except the commando teams during training exercises.  As long as he picked a terrain that wasn't scheduled for use, he could sit alone and enjoy the smell of growing things, undisturbed and free to think in peace.  He hardly saw his quarters anymore.  
  
The incident today, with the Prowler, and Aeryn, was giving him a lot to think about.  He'd known, intellectually, that the flight deck was a dangerous place to work--hell, Crais had all but gloated about it--but today's events had driven the fact home.  Maybe, instead of resigning himself to the situation, he ought to get off his ass and start looking for ways to fix it.  Wouldn't that just twist Crais' tail, if he took this disgrace of a job that no one else wanted, and not only survived it, but succeeded?  He thought Tauvo would have liked that.  
  
If for nothing else, he should do it for the techs, in Gilina's memory.  Their lives were harsh, and their duties dangerous, even under the best of circumstances.  Anything he could do to make their lot a bit less onerous in a world that failed to appreciate their importance would be an accomplishment he could be proud of.  
  
A faint voice whispered in the dark corners behind his ears, speaking of traps and fear and giving up hope.  John shook his head like a shying horse, though it never helped.  He picked up a stylus and the Peacekeeper version of a scientist's notebook, abandoning his current train of thought for the moment.  The whispers faded and blessed silence reigned once again inside his mind.  Whatever the voice and the visions of Scorpius were, there was only one thing guaranteed to banish them.  They never bothered him when he was working on wormhole theory.  If he worked on it long enough, they might even let him sleep.  
  
Arns passed while he scribbled notes and half-formed equations across the pages.  He was on the right track, he was pretty sure, but there was just too much information missing.  He had too many crazy theories, and only actually conducting tests could tell him whether they were, in fact, crazy.  Without a lab, without his equipment, he had to rely solely on his own mind.  It was frustrating, but he kept working, because sometimes a bit of knowledge would seem to drop down out of thin air and fall into place.    
  
"So this is where you've been hiding."  
  
He jumped, the stylus scratching a wild line across the page at the unexpected voice.  It was familiar, though.  He closed his eyes in frustration and didn't look up.  
  
"You look like shit, Crichton.  When was the last time you slept?"    
  
Aeryn knelt down on the ground beside him, and he couldn't help but meet her eyes, half-amused by her atypically proper usage of the English epithet.  He just shook his head.  He didn't want to lie, but he was reluctant to admit the truth, which was that he didn't remember.  Had it been two nights ago?  Three?  
  
"How'd you find me?" he asked by way of misdirection.  
  
"You weren't in your quarters.  Again.  So I tried to think of where else you might go.  This is the third vacant terrain reconstruction I've checked."  
  
"Hmm."  She knew him so well.  John turned his eyes away from her face, back down to his notes.  Pretending that he didn't miss her desperately was so much easier when she wasn't standing _right there_.  
  
"We didn't finish our conversation."  
  
Damn her for being such a stubborn wench.  "Aeryn, I already told you, I don't want you getting caught up in all this.  Crais blames me--"  
  
"John, you blamed yourself, too.  But there wasn't anything you could have done."  
  
"I know that, now, thanks to you and Zhaan beating it into my head.  But I do understand where Crais is coming from.  He's lost his brother, and he needs someone to blame.  I was there, I survived, and I'm an easy target."  
  
Aeryn dropped down to sit on the ground facing him, legs curled under her.  She looked puzzled.  "You're not angry with him?"  
  
"Oh, you bet your ass I'm angry!  And if Tauvo was here he'd be kickin' Bialar's ass _for_ me.  That's why I'm not gonna let the bastard beat me."  
  
Aeryn grinned, one of those full-strength, mega-watt smiles that made his heart turn somersaults.  "That," she announced proudly, pointing a finger right at his face, "is the Crichton I know!"  
  
He slapped her finger gently away in mock annoyance, snorting derisively but flushing with secret pleasure at her approval.  
  
But, no.  This was wrong.  He had to stop this, for her, no matter how much it hurt to lose it.  "Listen, Aeryn," he started, getting serious again, "I know it sucks, but you know as well as I do that you can't be hanging out with me right now.  Crais has made me a pariah, even more than I was before.  I'm a leper, poison to anyone who touches me.  We've got to stay away from each other, or people will talk."  
  
Aeryn's smile turned instantly into an angry scowl.  "Let them talk."  
  
John took a deep breath and decided to try complete and utter honesty.  "Aeryn, I know you better than that.  Your career means a lot to you, and I don't want you throwing it away for my sake.  Besides, if Crais gets another burr up his ass and decides you were involved, you could find yourself reassigned to something twice as dangerous as Marauders.   
  
"You know, better than anyone that this past cycle has been hell for me.  First Gilina, then Tauvo.  I think I've accepted that neither one of their deaths was my fault.  But that doesn't change the fact that they're both dead _because_ of me.  Because they were close to me, in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I've lost two friends already.  I couldn't stand it if I lost you, too."  
  
She sat quietly, no longer glaring daggers, and the silence stretched out over many microts.  John watched as hints of emotion played over her face, saying things she could not find words to express.  There was pain and loss written there, and he suddenly remembered that she, too, had lost friends.  Gilina and Tauvo were probably among the first people in her life that Aeryn had allowed to get that close to her.  Her stoic façade had fooled him into thinking it didn't affect her as much, but perhaps, underneath, she was in just as much pain as he was.  
  
"I don't want to lose you, either," she finally said, simple and to the point, confirming his guess.  The words may have mirrored his own, but the tone with which she spoke gave them a much different meaning.  There was something else there, hiding in the shadows behind her eyes, something he couldn't read.  
  
He felt his resolve waver.  He needed her.  They needed each other.  But how could he put her at risk?  
  
"How about here?"  
  
The question came out of left field with no referent.  "What?"  
  
"This place.  There doesn't seem to be anyone else here."  She gestured, encompassing the entire environment.  
  
"Not while the lights are out like this; I've hardly ever seen anyone else come in."  It wasn't dark, by any stretch, but the warm glow that mimicked the feel of sunlight on his skin was absent for these few arns during the sleep cycle.    
  
"Then why don't we meet here?  It's quiet.  We can talk all we want, and no one will see and report me for fraternizing with you."  
  
John thought about it, then looked around.  "What about surveillance?"  He'd grown used to the idea that he was being watched on this ship, though he still didn't like it.  
  
"Difficult in these chambers because of the large amount of open space.  And I doubt they devote much attention to areas that are typically empty.  Crais' pique notwithstanding, we're simply not that important. If some security officer sees us on his monitors, he'll just assume we've come for some private recreation and ignore us."  
  
John felt a quick thrill up his spine at those words, as he wondered for just a microt if Aeryn was actually suggesting....  
  
But then he dismissed the thought with a wry smile.  It was entirely his own imagination; there had been no hint of innuendo in her voice.  _Yer getting' horny there, boy._  
  
It was an odd sensation, after nearly two cycles of friendship, to suddenly be consciously aware of Aeryn as an attractive woman.    
  
Ah, well, he'd deal with that some other time.  For the moment, there was only her brilliant compromise, with which he decided he was in full agreement.  It would be a risk, but a small one, and it would be worth everything if he didn't have to go through all of this alone anymore.  
  
They talked for arns, catching up on their time apart.  And when the voices started whispering again, he ignored them.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn leaned back and took a sip of her drink, before setting it back on the table.  She occupied a table beneath the stylized bird emblem on the wall of the lounge.  Alone.    
  
This was one of the aspects of flying Marauders that she had the most trouble adjusting to.  Prowler pilots tended to congregate off-shift with their squad mates, to talk and drink and play games.  Marauder crews, though, after spending so many days or weekens crammed into a small space with the same people, almost invariably went their separate ways, in search of privacy, or at least different faces, when they returned to base.  
  
Aeryn and her new crew had just returned from such a mission, and she was relishing the chance to just sit.  It had been a tough battle, spanning several solar days, as part of a task force detailed to put down an attempted coup on a Peacekeeper protectorate world near the border.  They were all tired and looking forward to an extended rest.  
  
She wondered if John would be in their spot by the lake tonight, and hoped he would be.  They'd never been able to make plans, of course.  Between her own training and time on missions, and John's heavy schedule and uncertain sleep habits, their free time had only managed to coincide about one solar day in ten for the past three monens.  
  
A loud babble of voices drew Aeryn's attention to the door, where a group of Prowler pilots was making a noisy entrance.  Aeryn recognized some of the faces; it was Henta's squadron, part of the same Icarian Company she had once flown with herself.   
  
Henta spotted Aeryn while she was getting a drink and came over to join her.  "Hey Sun," she greeted with typical post-mission exuberance, "you just get in too?"  
  
Aeryn nodded, waving Henta to take a seat.  They spent some time comparing their experiences during the engagement; Henta's squad had been with the Prowlers providing air support, while Aeryn's crew had been in the thick of the ground fighting.  
  
After a while, a third pilot joined them.  Senior Officer Kranda, however, looked far angrier.  
  
"Bad fortune during the battle?" Aeryn guessed with some sympathy.  This had been Kranda's first major engagement since becoming squad leader; the unit's performance would have a major impact on the course of his career from this point forward.  
  
"No, no," Kranda replied, sitting down heavily.  "The battle went well, actually.  Fourteen kills for the squad, and only one Prowler damaged.  It was after we got back that everything went to hezmana."  
  
"What happened?" Henta asked, bringing out the cards and chits for the pilots' favorite game of bahknor.   
  
Kranda grimaced.  "Some stupid tech was too slow getting out of the way when we pulled in, and that frelling deck officer blew a pulse chamber over it.  You'd think he was a tech himself, the way he panders to them.  Not only did I have to listen to his prating complaints, but he actually grounded my entire squad for the next weeken!"  
  
Henta froze in shock, mid-deal.  "What?  He can't do that, can he?  He's a grot!  You rank him by two grades, at least!"  
  
Kranda's face was downright murderous.  "The fekkik quoted me chapter and subsection of the regs, citing 'overdue maintenance issues' for all my ships.  And he had the audacity to smile about it."  
  
Aeryn was almost afraid to ask; she thought she could guess precisely _which_ flight deck officer was making himself so popular.  "So what are you going to do about it?"  
  
The senior officer laughed ruefully and shook his head.  "A couple of my guys already tried to put the drannit in his place.  He may act like a frelling tech, but he fights like a commando.  Wonder which branch he got busted out of?"  
  
_Oh, for the love of Chilnak..._.  They didn't know.  Somehow, probably due to his long absences and obscure postings, John Crichton's identity as an alien had been forgotten.  His appearance was so perfectly Sebacean that there was nothing to make him stand out.  
  
_Well, unless he opens his mouth._  
  
Aeryn certainly wasn't going to be the one to enlighten them.  At some point in the past few monens, John had apparently learned to defend himself far better than she remembered.  She wondered what else he'd been keeping from her when they talked.  In any case, though, if the pilots he was angering knew he wasn't Sebacean, no fighting prowess in the universe would keep him safe.  
  
Henta, oblivious to her preoccupation, piped in.  "I guess you haven't had to deal with him up in the Marauder bays, Aeryn, but this guy has been a pain in our eema for probably a quarter cycle now."  
  
Curiosity overcame Aeryn's common sense.  "What else has he done?"  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Aeryn marched through the doors of the terrain reconstruction deck and scanned the area.  If he wasn't here, she was going to hunt him down wherever he was, no matter how public, and make him explain himself.  At gunpoint, if necessary.  
  
Fortunately for John, he was already there waiting for her.  He was certainly aware that the task force had returned, given his earlier confrontation, so perhaps he'd been expecting her.  
  
He looked up as she approached, his expression shadowed and somber but brightening somewhat upon seeing her.  
  
"Hey," he called out as she came into earshot.  She didn't reply until she'd taken her usual seat with her back against a convenient tree.  
  
"What the frell do you think you are doing?" she demanded without preamble, glaring at him with her arms crossed.    
  
"Nice to see you, too, Aeryn."  John's smile was confused, but conciliatory.  
  
She didn't answer, having no patience for frelling small talk.  
  
"You're gonna have to be more specific, Aeryn," he finally said, looking puzzled and not a little worried.  
  
"I just spoke to Kranda," she explained in slow, menacing tones.  "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"  
  
John's earlier dark expression returned, clouding his face again, his forehead furrowing in barely-repressed anger.  "Your _buddy_ Kranda killed one of my techs, Aeryn," he growled.  "He wasn't more than half a cycle out of training, and Kranda ran right over him because he was being too much of a frelling cowboy to watch where he was going!"  
  
Aeryn tilted her head.  She wasn't familiar with the term koo-boy, but she got the general idea.  "John, you told me yourself that the launch bays are a dangerous place to work--"  
  
He stopped her with a raised hand.  "But they don't have to be, that's the problem!  In the past three monens, I've put in just a few basic safety precautions, and we've cut the accident rate nearly in half!"  
  
Aeryn sat back.  Henta and Kranda hadn't mentioned that small detail when they'd been regaling her with their complaints.  All they cared about was the inconvenience.  
  
John went on, looking disgusted but speaking more calmly.  "Now I just have to get your Prowler jockeys to stop racking up a higher body count on the flight deck than they do on the battlefield.  If it takes knocking a few heads together, then that's what I'll do."  His hands, resting on his upraised knees, clenched and relaxed over and over as he spoke.  
  
The disparity in status and importance of techs versus soldiers was a topic she and John had discussed before in their night-time perambulations.  Thanks to her own friendly relationship with Gilina Renaez, not to mention having spent so many weekens in a half-destroyed Marauder being held together by the skills of a single tech, Aeryn was probably more receptive to John's arguments than anyone else aboard.  "I'm not saying you're wrong, John, but things have always been this way.  Techs simply aren't valued the way soldiers are.  They're considered little more than tools, to be discarded and replaced if they're damaged or lost."  
  
John sighed and leaned his head back against the tree.  "Damn, growing up here in the Peacekeepers must be one hell of a brainwash.  If this was Earth, your techs would have thrown down their tools and told you where to stick your superior attitudes a long time ago."  
  
"If this was Earth," Aeryn pointed out, getting back to her original concerns, "you wouldn't be in so much danger of getting your face bashed in by the pilots you're provoking."  
  
"Couple of Kranda's boys already tried that," he countered, smiling enigmatically.  
  
"So he told me.  I think you may have actually impressed him; he's trying to figure out what commando squad you were in before your 'demotion'."  
  
John snorted contemptuously.  
  
"When did you learn to fight like that?" Aeryn asked.  
  
He sobered, lowering his gaze to the ground.  "I started going to the advanced hand-to-hand training classes not long after we got back," he explained.  "No one ever asked whether or not I was supposed to be there.  It gave me something to fill my time, tire me out.  But mostly, Aeryn, after what happened to Tauvo, I do not want anyone to ever have to protect me again."  
  
Aeryn nodded.  That was pretty much what she'd suspected, though she still wondered why he'd never mentioned it before.  "Well and good," she said, ignoring that oversight.  "You're just lucky that no one among the pilots seems to remember you as the alien tech we brought aboard two cycles ago.  If they'd even suspected that you weren't Sebacean, no amount of fighting skill would have helped you.  They would never take such insolence from an alien."  
  
"Huh," was John's subdued reply.  "I'd wondered about that."  
  
"Just be careful not to remind them.  You're changing things down there, things that have been done the same way for a very long time.  Peacekeepers, as a rule, are about as fond of change as they are of aliens."  
  
John snorted.  "They aren't fond of losing their happy little privileges, that's what.  Every change I've made, Aeryn--from rearranging the deck and taxi lanes for better visibility, to clearing space around the ships and moving all that crap they used to keep out on the deck to a central storage--it's all right there in the regs if you bother to actually read them.  The pilots just don't think the rules should apply to _them_ , and they've been getting their way for way too long."  
  
"What do you mean, it's in the regs?"    
  
John laughed slightly.  "Babe, I'm not a complete idiot, you know.  I wanted to do something to help the techs down there, but I didn't just jump in blind.  I checked the codes, read them cover to cover, just looking for a loophole or two I might be able to exploit."  
  
He paused for effect, then shrugged helplessly.  "Imagine my surprise when I learned that not only was I allowed to make every change I'd been considering, I was actually _required_ to do so.  There are all sorts of rules and safety procedures in there that no one has bothered to enforce in I don't know how long.  Centuries, maybe."  
  
"What?"  Aeryn was aghast.  The rules were everything in Peacekeepers, almost a religion.  To learn that some were being ignored--that she herself had, unknowingly, done so--was like a blow to the very foundations of her faith.  How could such a thing have happened?  
  
"I don't know how it started," John said, seeming to read her thoughts.  "Rules like that often get set aside in war time, in the interests of expediency.  If they were as unpopular with the pilots then as they are now, maybe later generations just conveniently forgot to enforce them again after the war was over.  Or it may have been the deck officers; when they started handing this job out as a punishment, the disgraced commandos who got stuck with it were more concerned about kissing up to the pilots than they were about the proper operation of the flight deck."  
  
Aeryn's mind was still whirling in shock.  "Are you telling me that you really have the authority to ground an entire Prowler squad?  Even when most of them outrank you?"  
  
John reddened and shifted uncomfortably.  "Um...well," he fumbled, "not exactly.  I may have...stretched a rule or two on that one.  I don't really have any authority over the pilots at all.  I can't give them orders.  What I do have, though, is the last word on every ship that lands on my deck.  Most of them have little problems, things caused by normal wear and tear. Simple stuff that can be put off until something major comes up so you can fix everything at once.  But if I decide it's 'necessary', I can take a ship off of active status for any problem that might affect performance, even slightly."  
  
"So you didn't ground Kranda or his squad at all...."  
  
"I grounded their ships.  Exactly.  It's a technicality, but one I can use to teach the pilots a lesson.  They get one of my techs hurt or killed, they lose their ships for a while.  And the rest of the techs can take their own sweet time making the repairs."  
  
"You're insane," Aeryn pronounced decisively.  
  
"Since birth."  The grin was cocky and unrepentant.  "It'll save lives, Aeryn.  If it saves even one, it'll be worth it."  
  
"Even if it gets _you_ killed?"  
  
John suddenly got very serious, and very quiet.  "Aeryn," he said, finally.  "You and I both know what's been going on in my head lately.  It's not getting any better.  I'm trying to do some good with what little sanity I may have left, here.  If it does end up getting me killed, well...."  He shrugged indifferently.    
  
Before Aeryn could marshal her arguments, John shifted and straightened up.  His voice suddenly cheery, he asked, "So, how was your day, honey?"  
  
Her mouth gaped open, her thoughts thrown into a tailspin by the sudden shift in both mood and topic.  Part of her wanted to go back, beat some sense into Crichton, convince him to be more careful, but the rest of her was more than happy to change the subject.  Her mind recoiled from the whole idea that John might be going slowly insane and there was nothing she could do about it.  Avoidance was an entirely viable tactic, one they used regularly.  
  
She sighed, thinking back on the last several solar days.  "The mission was successful," she reported blandly.  She could hear more than fatigue in her own voice, though, and Crichton caught it immediately.  
  
"Bad?" he asked.  
  
She shrugged.  "Battle always is, no matter how long and hard you train and practice for it."  
  
John's eyes bored into hers, prodding her to say more.  
  
"It was easier when I was flying prowlers," she finally admitted.  "We were just taking out anonymous enemy ships then, targeting engines, shooting down missiles.  Destroying machines.  Now I see faces when I fire my weapons."  
  
Crichton sat quietly, listening to her with understanding.  This was what she loved about these meetings of theirs.  She could talk about emotions here, admit to having doubts, and John would never revile her for the weakness.  She could expunge her demons in safety, and receive the benefits of John's entirely unique perspective.  
  
"I would imagine it's especially hard when those faces are Sebacean," he murmured.  
  
"I suppose," she replied evasively, though of course he was correct.  
  
"I know you couldn't talk about it before you left, but can you tell me anything about the mission now?"  
  
"It was an uprising.  We suppressed it."  What was there to tell?  
  
"But what was it about?"  
  
_About?_   "What do you mean, what was it about?  It was a rebellion!"  
  
"But what were they rebelling _against_?  There's usually a reason, Aeryn."  
  
She stopped, silent.  There were times when John's unique perspective could be a little disturbing, too.  She fumbled for something resembling an answer.  "It...we...I don't know, Crichton.  We weren't told anything about that.  The Peacekeepers are simply contracted with the current government."  
  
"It might help, in the future," he suggested, "if you knew what you were fighting for."  
  
She thought about that.  Then she stopped thinking about it, tied it up in a neat bundle and filed it away to think about later.  Sighing, she let her head tip back against the tree trunk.  
  
"Tired?" John asked.  
  
"A bit."  
  
"You should go get some sleep, then."  
  
She nodded.  "I suppose I should.  Sleep, and a few days of rest.  For once I'm glad this is such a quiet patrol.  I--"  
  
A shrill alarm pierced the air, shattering their tranquility.  They both jumped at the sudden noise, then stared at each other with wide eyes.  This particular alarm was one rarely heard on this ship in the past few cycles, a ship-wide call to battle stations.    
  
The voice of the communications officer came through the comms, a faint hint of something like excitement tingeing her usually calm demeanor.  "Attention all personnel.  We have received a distress call from a Peacekeeper base under threat by a Scarran dreadnought.  We will arrive within six arns to render assistance.  All personnel report to emergency stations for further instructions."  
  
She and John sat in shocked silence for a microt, then rose to their feet.    
  
"Dreadnought?" John asked as they made their way quickly to the door.  
  
"The most powerful vessel in the Scarran fleet.  Twice our size, with firepower to match.  Our odds of success in a one-on-one confrontation--"  
  
"Never tell me the odds," he interrupted her.  "No rest for the weary, I guess.  Gonna be a long night."  
  
As they reached the door, John slowed and then stopped, turning to Aeryn with a strange, uncertain expression.  He rubbed one thumb against his lower lip, eyes boring deep into hers.    
  
"John?  What are you--"  
  
Reaching up, John grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her into a sudden, desperate kiss.  Her eyes flew wide in surprise, even as she felt herself respond.  John's eyes were closed, and stayed closed for a few microts after he let go and pulled back.  Then he took a deep breath and looked into her eyes again.    
  
"For luck," was all he said, quirking a wry grin, and then he turned and jogged away towards the flight deck.  
  
Aeryn couldn't move.  She stared after him, absently touching her lips.  She could still taste him.  Slowly, incrementally, she started to smile.  
  
Then footsteps pounded up the corridor from the opposite direction, shaking her from her reverie.  Schooling her expression and squaring her shoulders, Aeryn Sun prepared herself for yet another battle.  
  
This time, though, she knew what she would be fighting for.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
John slowed to a fast walk as he approached the hangar doors, not wanting to arrive out of breath or present an appearance of panic.  
  
The flight deck was a frantic hive of activity, with techs flying here and there looking both tense and focused.  There was little if any fear in evidence, and John envied them their composure.  
  
The sheer number of techs present was the biggest surprise.  Not only were all three shifts now on duty for the duration, but the techs whose normal stations were with less essential vessels, such as the scrub-runners and the KL-series transports, were also detailed to the Prowler bays in emergencies.  
  
There were no pilots or commandos in sight, all likely now sitting in the carrier's many briefing rooms learning about what they'd be up against.  Part of John wanted to be there, a fly on the wall.  The terse announcement and Aeryn's brief description of a Dreadnought were anything but a complete picture.  
  
Was this Pearl Harbor, first strike in the war that everyone feared was coming?  Or simply a test, a probe of Peacekeeper defenses?  
  
Would they be alone in this battle, or were other carriers coming?  What about the base?  What kind was it?  Planet?  Space station?  Could it hold out until they arrived?  
  
With a mental growl of frustration, John waved away the pointless questions.  They had a job to do here, a job that people's lives were going to depend on them doing well.  
  
John gave a piercing whistle--a trick that always amused the techs, since it was apparently not something Sebaceans ever learned to do--and drew the entire crew together in a vacant maintenance bay for a brief meeting.    
  
He spoke loudly, attempting to project in spite of the lousy acoustics in the bay, so as to be heard by the crowd of several hundred people.  "This is the real thing, guys," he announced, bluntly.  "You know all those new safety rules we've been pushing?  They're out the window as of this moment, so watch your asses out there!  
  
"Now, we need everything that can fly and shoot fueled and ready to launch in five arns.  Start with the easy ones and work your way down the list.  It doesn't have to be pretty and it doesn't have to be perfect, but get those birds ready for space, got it?"  
  
Nods and murmured agreements met that query.  John turned his attention to his chief tech, a stern woman with slightly graying hair.  "Avena, what's the status of the Prowlers from Senior Officer Kranda's squad?"  
  
"All the engines have been removed and stripped for a complete overhaul, sir."  
  
"How long would it take to put them back together?"  
  
Avena consulted her data pad, and he could see her making mental calculations.  "Eight arns, sir."  
  
"Damn," he swore vehemently.  
  
The techs seemed to shrink away from him, clearly expecting a violent reprimand at the very least.  "We simply did as you ordered, sir," Avena asserted nervously.  
  
John waved off her worries with a deprecating laugh.  "Yeah, I know, you guys are just too frelling efficient."  He got a few chuckles from the crowd for that, but they were still tense.  He sighed.  "Much as I would love to make Kranda Knievel sit this one out, we're going to need every fighter we've got.  Even him."  
  
John saw nods of agreement accompanied by frowns on the faces around him.  He sympathized; he hated having to give away the victory he'd so lately and narrowly won.  
  
"Avena," he said sharply, using his voice to draw her to attention.  "Pick a team of your best techs.  If you can get that squad flying in six arns, I'll grant every one of you an extra liberty day whenever you want it."  
  
The techs looked completely flabbergasted by that, and John smiled.  He remembered Gilina telling him once that techs rarely got any acknowledgement, much less any reward, for their achievements.  It encouraged mediocrity.  John was going to change that; it was time to see what the application of a little positive reinforcement could do.  
  
Everyone set to work with a will, spurred by the deadline of the approaching battle.  The fighting complement of the carrier might not appreciate them, but at times like this the techs knew their true worth.  Their diligence and expertise with the machinery of war could mean the difference between victory and destruction in the coming arns, as much or more than the skills of the pilots of the strategies of their commanding officers.  
  
John stayed out of their way.  In his early days down on the flight deck, he had tried lending a hand a time or two.  It had quickly become obvious, however, that it just made the techs uncomfortable to have him there.  They became nervous and accident-prone.  So John had learned to step back and concentrate on the true functions of his job, which were to help them do theirs by getting them what they needed, and to keep the pilots and senior officers from distracting them with silly orders.  
  
  
  
As the arns ticked down to microts and their destination grew closer, John found himself breathing a sigh of relief.  They'd made it.  Soon dozens of pilots started to stream in through the doors, helmets in hand, and climbed into their ships.  The Prowler squads raced towards the launch area, ignoring the lines and paths John had so recently laid out.  He held his breath, but the techs were alert despite their fatigue and scrambled out of the way.  
  
As the exodus proceeded apace, John caught sight of Kranda and his squad from across the bay, coming through one of the doors and proceeding blithely towards their Prowlers, clearly expecting to find them ready and waiting.  
  
When they discovered that the reconstruction was not yet completed, the pilots were something less than pleased.  A shouting match broke out, though it was the commandos doing all the shouting.  Avena spoke quietly, trying to explain, but they were having none of it.  
  
John had been heading across the bay at a quick jog from the microt he'd seen these guys come in.  As he got closer, he saw Avena finally lose her patience and snap at one of the pilots who was berating her.  
  
The pilot in question raised his hand to deliver a resounding backhand slap for the insolence, but John grabbed his hand out of midair and yanked him off balance, then kicked his legs out from under him.  
  
Stepping past the fallen soldier before he could scramble back to his feet, John took up a position between Kranda and the techs, next to and slightly in front of the irritated Chief Avena.  
  
Kranda, having seen the casual take-down of his pilot, looked just about ready to tear John's head off.  He took a step forward, but John raised his hand and pointed two fingers into his face.    
  
"Back off, flyboy," John said sharply.  
  
Kranda stopped, from shock more than anything, most likely.  "How dare you speak to me that way?  You have no right; I am your superior officer--"  
  
"But you are not my _commanding_ officer.  Sir.  And I do have the right, because you are standing on _my_ flight deck, interfering with _my_ people's work.  Check with Lt. Malarr in Flight Ops.  I already have.  She didn't like it any more than you do, but she's confirmed my authority on this deck as per Article Thirteen Tola--"  
  
"Don't you quote regulations at me, frelnik!"  Kranda's face got redder, his fists clenching impotently at his sides.  
  
John was actually starting to enjoy this; it felt good to be able to tell someone off but good, even if he was treading a very fine line between resolve and insubordination.  He continued in his most rational, reasonable tone, "Sir, we are in a high alert situation here.  I'll have to ask you and your men to clear out until we're ready for you."  
  
"Our ships are supposed to be ready _now!"_  
  
John smiled.  "Your Prowlers were pulled from active status for delinquent repairs less than fifteen arns ago, Senior Officer, on my authority.  Perhaps you remember that.  Now, there is nothing in the rules that says I have to release them until those repairs are done.  Under any other circumstances, I would love to stand back and watch you stew.  But I figure we need every pilot we've got if we're going to survive this, so I've had this team working nonstop since the alert came down, getting your birds put back together."  
  
"We are supposed to be out _there_!" Kranda screeched, waving an arm wildly towards a random spot on the bulkhead, losing even more self-control.  If Sebaceans weren't so nearly cold-blooded, John would expect to see steam coming out of his ears.  "Do you want to explain to Lt. Malarr why our fighter screens are a squadron short?"  
  
"I already have," John replied calmly.  "And if you had bothered to check in with her instead of coming down here and making an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me', you would have known that.  I believe she's detailed your unit to the Xelstar regiment temporarily, until your ships are ready."  
  
"Ship security?  That's an outrage!  We're pilots, not frelling boot-shiner grots!"  
  
John just shrugged.  "Take that up with the Lieutenant, sir.  All I know is that the longer you stand here yammering at me, the longer you'll have to wait before your ships are ready."  
  
Maybe it was the smile on John's face as he said it, but something finally tore the last of Kranda's temper.  With a roar, he threw himself at Crichton, all technique and training forgotten in his rage.  
  
John caught his arms and, using the man's own momentum, tossed him sprawling onto the deck.    
  
There was a low growl, in stereo surround sound, as nearly a dozen angry pilots took exception to this poor treatment of their commander and started forward.  
  
_Oops._   John took up his best defensive stance, ready to fight even knowing he was going to lose.    
  
Then the advancing soldiers stopped, identical looks of confused dismay on their face, and backed away a step.  The confusion was mutual, and John found himself wondering if some senior officer had just walked in.  But then he sensed something and took a glance behind him.  
  
Twenty techs stood arrayed behind and around John, each and every one of them holding some large and heavy tool.  There was nothing about their postures that seemed even vaguely threatening, but they were very much _there_.  
  
Kranda was on his feet and in Crichton's face almost instantly.  "You just made a big mistake, Sub-officer Crichton.  Striking a superior officer is a serious offense.  I swear to you, I will have you up on charges the instant this battle is won!  Your career is finished!"  
  
John felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest, slightly hysterical but real enough.  "Go right ahead, asshole," he chuckled at Kranda's crimson, contorted face.  "I really couldn't care less."  
  
Then he turned his back on a stunned Kranda in clear dismissal and raked his eyes over the techs ranked behind him.  "What are you guys just standing around for?" he demanded sternly.  "Get back to work!"  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
As the carrier and its escort vessels decelerated into the system and approached the besieged gammak base, the huge ship dropped a trail of breadcrumbs.  Fifty Marauders, stripped bare of all but essential weapons, moved off at a tangent, slipping behind the gas giant that the base was orbiting before the Dreadnought came into sensor range.  
  
The small fleet raced around the huge planet, just grazing the upper atmosphere and using the massive gravity to boost their speed beyond anything the normally plodding ships were capable of.  It was a new tactic, recently added to the commandos' repertoire.  
  
A single Marauder led the way, with the officer who had first proposed this unique maneuver at the helm.  Aeryn Sun smiled as she held the ship's course steady, wondering what the others would think if they knew that this technique had originally been conceived by an inferior alien from a backward planet.  
  
At the proper moment, Aeryn wrenched the ship away, blasting them out of orbit and onto a direct course for the planet's largest moon.  Their velocity was at least twice what Marauders were capable of unassisted, which should help them slip through the Scarran fighters swarming about the small satellite with minimal contact.  
  
"I'll see that you get a commendation for this, Officer Sun," said Lt. Dak.  He was standing just behind Aeryn's shoulder, observing this new maneuver with apparent satisfaction.  
  
"Thank you, sir."  She would, she vowed silently, make sure to include the true originator of this tactic in her report; it was John's theory, and he deserved the credit for creating it.  
  
"Any word from the carrier, Sub-Officer?" Dak asked, turning his attention to another soldier.    
  
The young man at the comms console replied, "They've engaged the Dreadnought, sir, on the far side of the moon."  
  
"Good," Dak nodded.    
  
"A command carrier has got to be the biggest frelling diversion I have ever heard of," the weapons officer muttered.    
  
"Let's just hope it works," Dak replied grimly.  "We've got a job to do, and we can't do it with that frelling budong full of Scarrans hovering over us.  Whatever this base has been working on, High Command apparently considers it worth the possible loss of an entire carrier to keep it out of the hands of the enemy.  That's our job."  
  
"Aye sir."  
  
Dak turned back to communications.  "See if you can get a tight-beam transmission through to the base as soon as we're within line-of-sight."  
  
It took about a hundred microts before they were able to contact anyone.  "Who's there?" came a harried voice, finally.  The man on the base was out of breath and obviously far past any caring for procedure or courtesy.    
  
Dak didn't bother objecting to the rudeness.  "Lt. Dak, sir," he identified to the base officer.  "Commanding Katirian company, Pleisar regiment.  Are you the base commander?"  
  
"Lt. Heskon, sir.  Chief of security.  The commander is dead, sir."  
  
"What's your situation, Lieutenant?"  
  
The man at the other end took a deep breath.  "The Scarrans commenced their attack approximately five arns ago.  We managed to repel their troop ships for almost four arns until our ground to space artillery ran out of ammunition.  Thanks to the volatile nature of this moon's surface, the Dreadnought has refrained from using its main weapons; their intent is evidently to capture the base rather than destroy it."  
  
"They have landed troops, then?"  
  
"Yes, sir.  We don't know how many; there are no sensors up top where they landed.  They breached the base perimeter and have now penetrated to level five.  We're holding them there for the moment."  
  
Dak nodded; they'd expected something of the sort.  "Lt. Heskon, my troops should be arriving within five hundred microts.  Please have the project personnel prepare for extraction, along with all of their data and essential equipment."  
  
"Aye sir."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
When the last squad of Prowlers raced down the flight deck towards the gaping maw that was the launch bay, John took a deep breath.  His job wasn't done, not by any stretch, but the first hurdle had been cleared and no lives had been lost.  
  
Three dozen techs still labored tirelessly on Kranda's squadron of Prowlers at the far end of the bay.  At this rate, Avena's crew might just beat John's six arn goal for completing the repairs.  
  
The rest of the crews, those not involved in that frantic task, John divided into groups of twenty and assigned to maintenance bays along the perimeter of the main hangar.  They could already hear the thrum of the main frag cannons firing, the sound ringing through the metal superstructure of the carrier.  Soon some of those Prowlers they had watched fly out of the hangar would be limping back, damaged or crippled.  The techs' jobs would then be to get those disabled craft back into the battle, if possible, and as fast as possible.  
  
The ringing of the carrier's guns was soon joined by the jolts and rumbles of Scarran weapons fire striking against the shields.  The crews paused and looked up at every shake at first, but soon they were managing to ignore the disturbance and keep working.  
  
Over the course of the next quarter arn, half a dozen Prowlers returned to the bay with minor damage, and the tech teams were soon hard at work.  
  
About an arn before, just as the first of the pilots appeared in the hangar, the hangar deck's main comms had started to broadcast a live feed from flight ops control.  For the most part the chatter was mundane--technical jargon, deployment patterns and the like--so after a little while John managed to push it into the background like a radio talk show.    
  
Once in a while, though, he was drawn back to it by a familiar voice, such as when Captain Crais fired orders to the Prowler wings or the Vigilantes, or by his own worries.  He kept an ear open for news of the Marauder squadrons, but heard no mention of them.  What were Aeryn and her fellow commandos doing?  Where were they?  
  
A loud rumble echoed through the walls, and the deck shook again, hard enough to throw everyone off-balance.  John was just getting steadied again when a short, shrill alarm sounded.  He looked up.  
  
Another Prowler was entering the bay.  It veered drunkenly, narrowly missing the wall.  As it turned back on course, John could suddenly see a trail of vapor streaming out from under one wing.  
  
"Oh, shit," he muttered.  "Team two, emergency!  Get some foam on the deck!"  
  
The techs heard his order and rushed to comply, but the pilot of the damaged ship must have been seriously hurt.  His approach was still erratic, and far too fast.  As he neared the middle of the bay, while the techs were just starting to deploy the fire-retardant foam, the fighter suddenly listed to one side and scraped a wing against the bare metal of the deck.  
  
Sparks flew.  
  
"Frell!  Get down!" was all the warning John had the chance to give before the sparks ignited the trail of cesium fuel leaking from the Prowler.    
  
Diving for cover in the nearest maintenance bay, John felt a rush of searing heat wash over him as the resulting explosion filled the entire hangar with noise and fire.  As the heat and sound faded, new sounds took their place: pain-filled screams from those who hadn't been so lucky.  
  
John staggered to his feet and slammed a fist into the nearest comms panel.  "Fire on deck!" he shouted, hearing his own voice echo through the bay as his cry for help reached flight ops.  "I repeat, fire on the hammond side flight deck!  We need suppression teams and med techs!  Frelling _now!_ "  
  
He barely heard the acknowledgements from the ops personnel as he stumbled back towards the hangar and took his first look at the disaster.  
  
Flaming debris littered the deck for a hundred motras in all directions from the site of the crash.  Bodies, too, many of them also burning.  
  
War.  This was what war looked like.  How many of those bodies belonged to people he'd known by name?  People he'd joked with, and managed to goad into laughter despite the wide gulf of rank and custom?  
  
The dull thrum of weapons fire continued unchecked, and for the first time John found himself really thinking about what that sound meant.  
  
And praying those shots were finding their targets.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
With a short burst from the landing thrusters, Aeryn set her Marauder down in a place she had never thought to return to.  The hangar, at least, had not changed.  Indeed, the spot she'd chosen, as close to the far wall as possible to make room for the dozens of others following her, was almost the exact same place from which she'd stolen a Marauder the last time.  
  
Back then, she had come to this place to rescue two people.  This time she was here to rescue everyone.  
  
While the other ships were setting down all around them, Lt. Dak was attempting to devise a strategy.  They had a general diagram of the base, and Lt. Heskon had given them the approximate position of the Scarran invaders.  
  
"Sir?" Aeryn spoke up tentatively after watching her commanding officer mutter to himself for a while.  
  
"Yes, Officer Sun?" he replied distractedly.    
  
"As you know, sir, I have been to this facility before..."  
  
"Yes, of course.  It's part of the reason I wanted you on my team for this mission."  
  
Aeryn nodded.  That explained her sudden transfer to the company commander's flagship, an event which had been both pleasant and daunting during the briefing earlier.  "There is a back-corridor route, sir, mostly used by the techs.  It leads from the hangar here through narrow passageways to this point," she pointed to a section of the diagram, not far from the Scarrans.  
  
"How narrow?"  
  
"We'd have to go single file, sir."  
  
"Too tight for the Scarrans to use?"  
  
Aeryn thought about it.  "Most likely."  
  
"Excellent!" Dak crowed.  "We'll be able to catch them in a cross-fire, drive them back to the surface.  And it sounds like a perfect evacuation route, as well.  Easier to defend."  
  
The rest of the company, over two hundred commandos, was standing ready on the deck by the time Dak and his crew disembarked.  Instead of the smaller pistols and rifles that were their usual gear, each soldier sported a shoulder-slung pulse cannon.  They were heavy and awkward in close quarters, but they were also the only hand-held weapon in the Peacekeeper arsenal that could reliably put down a Scarran with a single shot.  
  
Dak took point, with Aeryn just behind him to provide directions, and led half the commandos through the back passageways.  The others were to advance through the main corridors.  Together with the base personnel already in place, their forces hoped to catch the enemy in a three-way cross-fire.  It might not be enough to completely destroy them--an initial strafing run before entering the base had shown a dozen transport ships parked on the roof, meaning there might be as many as five hundred Scarrans inside the base--but it ought to at least force them to retreat higher.   
  
Along the way, Dak's unit encountered several techs who had retreated to these back hallways when the Scarran advance cut off their escape.  He ordered them brusquely to the hangar bay to wait.  
  
After what seemed like metras of walking--somehow Aeryn hadn't remembered it being so far--they reached a hatchway that she recognized.  "Here, sir," she pointed out to Dak.  "This leads out into a secondary corridor, designation seven lerg three."  
  
Dak moved to the hatch and gestured for silence.  Like a wave, as the message passed back along the line, everyone froze.  The lieutenant listened, ear pressed close to the door, for a dozen microts, then turned, frowning, back to Aeryn.    
  
"Scarrans," he whispered harshly.  "At least two; probably a scout patrol.  Any other exits?"  
  
"Not nearby," she replied, pitching her voice low to match his.  Scarran hearing wasn't terribly acute, but no sense taking chances.  "Last one was at least a hundred motras back."  
  
"Too close to the main force.  They'd be on us before we could get into position.  We've a better chance with just the patrol."  Dak paused, then gave a wicked little smile.  "Wouldn't be any fun if we didn't get to kill some lizards, anyway, eh Sun?"  
  
Aeryn returned his smile, remembering Tauvo.  Crichton wasn't the only one itching for a little payback.  She primed her cannon, the ready hum of energy build-up providing a more than adequate reply.  
  
At Dak's direction, she crouched low by the hatch opening, ready to fire at any available target the microt he pulled it open.  This was risky, to be sure.  Success was entirely dependent on the element of surprise; if there were more than two out there, she and Dak might not be able to take them all out before one of them could call for help.  The commandos trailing behind them would only be able to exit one at a time, leaving the Peacekeeper forces highly vulnerable for a short interval.    
  
Dak counted down silently, then wrenched the heavy door aside.  Aeryn scanned quickly, saw nothing, then shoved her weapon through the door, somersaulted over it and came up into position on the far side of the corridor, facing the opposite direction.    
  
"Three!" she called out, even as she aimed and fired on one of the Scarran scouts.  It was a well-placed shot to the head and the huge creature fell without a sound, having never seen his attacker.  
  
Dak pivoted around the edge of the door, bringing his own weapon to bear just as Aeryn drew a bead on her second target.  One scout was already reaching for his comms.  The other fired a wild blast in Aeryn's direction.  It missed, narrowly, but she didn't flinch and her own shot found its mark, just as Dak's own cannon spat.  The call for aid was interrupted before it began.    
  
Dak rolled out of the door and took up a position at Aeryn's back to guard the other direction, alert for any alarm the weapons discharges might have triggered.  With the hatch clear, the commandos started filing out behind them, each taking up a covering position in one of the corridor's many alcoves.    
  
No Scarrans appeared, and a hundred tense microts later all of the Peacekeeper commandos were deployed and ready.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
The ship shuddered, groaning like a wounded whale, and John shifted to maintain his balance.  He shook his head and sighed.  He needed to find something productive to do to keep himself distracted, instead of wasting time staring at that ugly gash ripped into the floor of his deck, and the bodies still littering the scorched corners of the bay.  
  
The voice in his head was whispering again, about wormholes and weapons and the power to defeat the Scarrans.  "Shut up, damn it," he muttered under his breath, trying futilely to wave the voice away.  "That's not helping."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
John turned smartly, grateful for the distraction, but also hoping he hadn't been overheard talking to himself.  He found himself looking down at a young girl, not much more than seventeen or eighteen cycles old, with dark hair and deep brown eyes.  Her quizzical expression said she had indeed heard him.  _Damn it._   "Yes, um...."  John had made it a point to know all of the techs under his supervision by name and specialty, but this one was new and he was drawing a blank.  
  
"Pi J'hesta, sir."  
  
"Pi?"  John fought a smile, absurdly amused at the linguistic coincidence that had bestowed such an appropriate name on a tech.  This was hardly the time for that discussion, though; it would take much too long to explain.  John shoved the thought aside and replied seriously, using her surname as was customary.  "What is it, J'hesta?"  
  
"Chief Avena would like to speak with you when it's convenient, sir."  
  
He sighed, relieved to have something to think about at last.  "It's more than convenient, it's a damn miracle.  Lay on, MacDuff."  
  
J'hesta froze, a panicked look crossing her face.  John mentally kicked himself.  He really had to learn not to do that.  J'hesta was expecting to be punished any microt for her hesitation, because she hadn't understood his orders.  It was yet more proof that she was new to the flight deck; most of the techs he'd worked with over the past few monens had gotten used to his odd speech patterns.  They also knew that he wasn't the type of capricious, sadistic officer who punished others for his own mistakes.  
  
"Take me to the Chief, J'hesta," John clarified gently.  
  
"Oh, aye sir!"  The girl turned and marched briskly away, leading him towards the single remaining active maintenance bay on the deck.  The rest of the area had been shut down following the accident, but Avena's crew still labored on, repairing Kranda's squad of Prowlers.  
  
As he approached the bay, John could see the small black ships still swarming with techs, all of whom he knew well.  Avena had picked out the most experienced and talented people on the deck to do the work, some of them nearly as brilliant in their chosen field as Gilina had been in hers.  Under other circumstances, John knew, he could have called many of them friends, could have spent long arns off-shift just shooting the breeze with these people.  But now, as their supervising officer, the gulf of rank was simply too wide to be bridged.  
  
If young Pi J'hesta had been chosen to work among this group, John realized, Avena must have thought there was something pretty special there.  He'd have to keep an eye on this girl's progress.  
  
Assuming they both survived the day.  
  
The Chief was inspecting some bit of work for one of the techs.  As John approached, she nodded her approval then turned to face him.  
  
"What's up, Avena?"    
  
The older woman didn't blink.  She was used to his quirks by now, and even understood him part of the time.  "We are refueling the squadron now, sir.  The ships will be ready for launch in under two hundred microts."  
  
He smiled at the news, impressed.  The work had been interrupted by the Prowler crash on the main deck and the subsequent chaos of rescue and damage control, but Avena had still managed to beat her original estimate by over an arn.  "Good work," John said simply.  "I'll let the pilots know."  
  
As he turned away and headed for the nearest comms station, John made a mental note.  If by some chance they managed to survive the day, he vowed, he'd find something nice to do for that crew as a reward.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
The evacuation was proceeding in as orderly a fashion as such things generally managed--which was to say not very, and getting worse by the microt.  
  
The Scarran forces had been driven back, forced to retreat almost to the surface.  Fifty of the base's remaining soldiers, led by Lt. Dak, were standing guard at the far end of the escape route, alert for the inevitable counter-attack once the Scarrans regrouped.  Hopefully, however, they would be gone by the time that happened.  
  
Aeryn was in the hangar, directing the evacuees to their ships as best she could.  Each Marauder took on as many as it could hold, usually about twenty additional personnel, before taking off.  A dozen ships had already left before Aeryn ever arrived, the first rush of essential personnel having beaten her to the bay.  Two dozen ships had been filled and departed since then.    
  
With so many people crammed into each ship, it was going to be a very uncomfortable five-day journey back to Peacekeeper space if the worst happened.  
  
As time passed, the stream of refugees slowed to a trickle, and the number of ships remaining dwindled to just a bare handful.  Then for over three hundred microts there was nothing.  The silence of the base was eerie, absent the noise of the nearly one thousand people who had lived within its walls.  
  
Because of that preternatural quiet, Aeryn heard the tramp of boots echoing along the corridor long before anyone appeared.  
  
Dak emerged first, leading the final retreat of the base's defenders.  He came to stand at Aeryn's side while the others filed out to the remaining ships.  
  
"All quiet?"  
  
"Yes, sir.  No problems at this end."  Aeryn glanced up at her superior.  "Are the timers set?"  
  
Dak nodded.  "We have about eight hundred microts."  
  
"Should be plen--" Aeryn started to say, when an angry voice suddenly cut through hers.    
  
"You!"  
  
Both Aeryn and Dak turned.  A dark-haired man, lieutenant's insignia still clinging to the ragged and dirty remains of his uniform, was stalking towards them with a finger pointed accusingly at Aeryn's face.  He seemed vaguely familiar.  
  
"You, Hardek!" the man called out again as he got closer still.  
  
Ah, that brought the memory to the surface.  Heskon, the security officer who had accosted her in Crichton's cell the last time she was here.  She'd forgotten him in the interim, but obviously he still remembered her.  Probably because she'd knocked him unconscious.  
  
'Nela Hardek' had been the identity forged for her by Gilina Renaez, to allow her to move about the base freely during that earlier mission.  Apparently the deception had held up, even through the subsequent inquiry, and her true identity had never been discovered.   
  
"Lt. Dak," Heskon said, still pointing at Aeryn, "I insist that you place Officer Hardek under arrest, for assault on a superior officer."  
  
Dak's expression was a mix of confusion and exasperation.  "Lieutenant, I am fairly sure this woman has not come anywhere near you."  
  
"Not today.  It was nearly a cycle ago.  She infiltrated this facility, broke two prisoners out of their cell--"  
  
The rant continued in long and painful detail.  Aeryn looked over at her superior, only to see that he was looking both bored and impatient.  She remembered their eight hundred microt deadline, now dwindled to less than six hundred.  
  
_Frell it._  
  
Heskon was still griping about her unprovoked attack when she obliged him with a demonstration.  Her fist impacted with his face in a full-power pantak jab, and Heskon fell to the ground, unconscious and silent.  
  
Dak's only immediate response was to raise a single eyebrow.  
  
"We don't have time for this, sir," she explained.  
  
"Right."  He nodded.  "Crewmen!"  Dak gestured to two young soldiers who had been watching the proceedings with some amusement.  "Get this man aboard a ship."  
  
"Aye, sir," the grots replied brightly.  Each man took one of Heskon's arms and prepared to drag him away.  
  
"Just make sure it isn't _mine_ ," Dak clarified.  
  
Their smiles grew wider.  "Aye, sir," they said again.  
  
At a gesture from the lieutenant, Aeryn followed him towards their Marauder.  Time was indeed running short.  
  
"Sir," she asked tentatively as then climbed aboard.  "About Heskon's charges...."  
  
"What about them, Sun?  All of his accusations were against an Officer Hardek.  I have no soldier by that name under my command."  
  
"But...what about...just now...."  
  
There was a twinkle in Dak's eye, though his face was perfectly serious.  "I didn't see anything."  He turned and marched towards the bridge.  Then, just as he was about to pass out of sight, he turned back towards her.  "Off the record, though," he said slyly, "I'd been wanting to do that for arns.  The man's an annoying _treznot_."  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
The harried officer in flight control who took John's report was understandably abrupt.  "Fine," she snapped, cutting him off.  "I'll pass the information along.  Now get off this channel, Sub-officer; we have more important things to--oh, frell!"  
  
John physically stepped back from the comms station.  There was pure panic in that voice, and Peacekeeper officers simply did not _do_ that.  _What the frell is happening?_   Shouting voices came through the open comms channel, overlapping and muffled.  The words were garbled, but the fear and desperation came through clearly, worrying John further.    
  
"What's happening, sir?"  
  
Young Pi J'hesta had appeared at John's elbow, watching and listening curiously.  
  
John shook his head.  "Dunno."  
  
An alarm blared, momentarily deafening everyone.  John didn't recognize it at first--it wasn't one he'd heard before--but J'hesta's eyes widened.  "Collision alarm!"  
  
At the same instant, one voice came clearly through the babble on the comms.  "Helm, take evasive action.  All hammond side cannons, maximum fire!  Kill that ship!"  
  
John stood frozen for an instant.  His instincts advised flight, but was there really anywhere they could run?  
  
The impact, when it came, seemed almost mild at first, hardly worth the flight ops crew getting so bothered about.  There was a jolt, no worse than the many they'd ridden out caused by weapons fire, and a distant rumble vibrating through the walls.  
  
But the sound didn't die away.  It grew, building into a deafening roar that shook the ship like a freight train bearing down on them, until it became a struggle to simply remain standing.  J'hesta, forgetting protocol, grabbed onto John for support, and he wrapped one arm around her while trying to hold onto the wall with the other.  
  
There were screams, from both tearing metal and Sebaceans.  The lights all through the hangar bay dimmed, then flared brighter; several exploded in showers of sparks.  Then, all at once, the bay plunged into darkness.  
  
Just when John thought the worst might be over, there was a loud concussion from the mouth of the bay, followed by a shock wave that threw everyone still standing onto the deck.  John lost his hold on J'hesta as he tried to roll with the shock.  He slammed to a stop against a Prowler's landing strut, still clamped securely into the maintenance chock-blocks.    
  
The impact knocked the breath from John's lungs, and it seemed for a crazy instant as if the ship was empathizing with him.    
  
_Who the frell dumped me into the world's biggest shop vac?_     
  
The inane thought raced through his mind before he could process what was happening.  Precious air was rushing out, a hurricane-force gale towards the gaping maw of the landing and launch bay.  _Containment field failure_ , he deduced, grabbing on to the Prowler.  Others, less fortunate, screamed as they plummeted towards the emptiness of space, along with tools and debris and anything else not bolted down.  
  
John could see pressure doors all around the bay slamming shut, sealing them off from the rest of the ship to prevent decompression of the entire section.    
  
_Where's the frelling emergency power?_  
  
A piercing scream snapped John's attention back, and he turned his head into the wind.  Through tearing eyes, he could see J'hesta about two motras to one side and behind him, her body flailing wildly at the end of the fuel line she'd managed to grab onto.  Sooner or later--probably sooner--the line would snap, or the constant pummeling against the deck would weaken the young girl's grip.  
  
"Climb!" he yelled back at her.  "Grab my hand!"  
  
For a microt he feared she would ignore him, or was already too dazed to understand.  But then, slowly, shakily, she started to pull herself hand over hand.    
  
_*Do not risk yourself in this foolish manner, John.  You must save yourself.*_  
  
Not a whisper this time; it was like the Scorpius in his head was yelling in his ear over the roar of the wind.  He felt his muscles resist as he tried to release one hand from his grip on the fighter and reach out for the girl.  
  
"Let...go of me...frelling bastard!"  John gritted his teeth and fought the compulsion.  Why did that stupid voice care, anyway?  He'd be dead in thirty microts whether he hung on or not, unless the emergency systems kicked in, which they should have done long since.    
  
The young tech, having finally climbed far enough, reached out to him and nearly lost her grip when his hand wasn't there to catch her.  With a growl that started deep in his chest and expanded into a roar of rage, John finally managed to loose one hand and reach out, his fingertips brushing against J'hesta's.  As he hung there, reaching out for her hand, shadows crept into the corners of his vision as the air pressure dropped.  
  
He reached again, desperately, finally grasping Pi's hand in his own.  If he couldn't save her, or even himself, then at least they could both have someone to hold on to.  They wouldn't have to die alone.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
As they broke free of the moon's thin atmosphere, there were no Scarran ships waiting for them.  It was odd, but perhaps they'd all been called away for some...then Aeryn caught sight of the battle being waged at the far edge of her screen.  
  
"For the love of Chilnak..." she whispered sadly.  
  
The carrier was wallowing like a wounded trolock.  One entire side of the main defensive ring structure had been sheared away, and she could make out pinpoints of fire raging on the inner decks.  Thousands dead, she knew, in that ring alone; the guns that studded the outer surface would have been fully manned.  
  
The dreadnought, fortunately, looked to be in little better shape.  It too sported multiple fires and signs of major damage.  Smaller ships still swarmed about, dueling their counterparts and harrying the larger vessels.  
  
"Set course for the asteroid field, Officer Sun," Lt. Dak reminded her, his voice sad and wistful, carrying no reprimand for her distraction.  "We need to rendezvous with the others."  
  
Aeryn blinked away the stinging in her eyes and set the course, curving them back into the planet's shadow where they would be hidden from Scarran sensors.  "And then what, sir?" she asked.  
  
There was silence for a long time, until she was sure he wasn't going to reply.  Then he said, quietly, "I don't know, Sun.  I don't frelling know."  
  
Behind them, the explosives the commandos had placed throughout the Gammak base detonated.  The massive explosion ignited the volatile surface of the moon, and the inferno spread rapidly.  Soon the huge gas giant that dominated the area of the battle had lost a moon, and gained a second, tiny sun.   


  
  



	6. When The Chips Are Down

_"I am in control of me!" -- John Crichton_  
  
  
The command carrier didn't look much better close up than it had from a distance, even two solar days after the battle ended.  True, the fires no longer raged, and any breached sections that couldn't be quickly repaired had long since leaked the last of their atmosphere into space.  All was quiet.  But still, two-thirds of the ship was dark, on emergency power only, and the huge section missing from the hammond side ring left the ship looking lopsided and crippled.    
  
And yet it lived.  No matter how much the carrier might resemble the dead hulk of the _Zelbinion_ , the ship had survived, and by surviving, it had won.  
  
Not long after the explosion of the Gammak base, which sparked a firestorm on the tiny moon that even the Scarrans could not traverse, the wounded Dreadnought had retreated.  Apparently, thus robbed of their prize, they had seen no purpose in pursuing the battle to its end and risking themselves for no gain.  Lt. Dak, however, being cautious, had kept the Marauder squadrons hidden in the system's dense asteroid field until reconnaissance ships had returned with confirmation that the enemy had indeed fled the area.  
  
The facilities on the carrier's hammond side were out of commission, leaving the returning Marauders no choice but to squeeze into the already over-crowded treblin side landing bays.  Lt. Dak had Aeryn hold their ship back until the rest had settled into the Marauder bay, only to discover there simply wasn't room for them all.  Flight ops irritably directed the stragglers to the Prowler bay as a temporary measure.  
  
It wasn't much better there; every surviving Prowler in the convoy was parked wing-tip to wing-tip on the deck, and finding room for the larger Marauders required the efforts of a dozen techs and several hundred microts before they could finally set down.  Then, for the first time in nearly fifty arns, Aeryn took her hands off the flight controls and relaxed.  
  
By the time she and the lieutenant finally dropped out of the ship after finishing the complete shut-down procedures, they were both about ready to fall asleep standing up.  But when Aeryn spotted a familiar face, she couldn't pass up the chance for some news.  
  
"Kranda!" she called out, raising a hand in greeting when the man turned around.    
  
Kranda looked like dren, his face and uniform stained with smoke and blood and his eyes glazed with exhaustion.  Not that that was different from every other crewman on the deck; they all bore the same war-torn and shell-shocked look.    
  
"You unit flew well?" Aeryn asked, politely, as she approached.  
  
Kranda shook his head, a small, rueful half-smile quirking one corner of his mouth.  "Never got off the deck, actually.  The techs had our ships in pieces when the alert came down and didn't get them back together until the battle was nearly over.  We spent the whole time detailed to Xelstar."  
  
Aeryn felt her eyebrows climbing into her hairline.  It wasn't what Kranda had said--now that she recalled the arns before the battle, she knew she should have expected something like that--but rather Kranda's unnatural calm.  "You're not..." She trailed off, searching for the right word.  
  
"Angry?" Kranda supplied for her.  "No.  I was kranked at first, but not anymore."  
  
"Why not, what happened?"  
  
"You know, I used to think you were fahrbot for giving up Prowlers and going Special Ops."    
  
Aeryn blinked at the apparent change of topic.  "As I recall, you were the one who encouraged me."  
  
"Sure I did.  If _you'd_ still been in our unit, _I'd_ never have made squad leader!"  Kranda grinned unrepentantly, and Aeryn had to smile at his undisguised duplicity.  "Now, though," Kranda continued, "I think I understand why you did it.  Prowler pilots don't get to do the important things."  
  
Aeryn didn't have a good response to that.  Those hadn't been her reasons for requesting the transfer, but that didn't mean Kranda was wrong.  "What does that have to do with--" she started to ask.  
  
"Did you know the carrier got boarded?"  Kranda asked suddenly, cutting her off.  
  
"What?"  The exclamation came from Lt. Dak, who was still standing at Aeryn's elbow, likely as interested as she in whatever news he could get.  He was aghast.  "The Scarrans tried to take the ship?"  
  
"How?" Aeryn wondered.  It was almost unheard-of for a command carrier to be boarded by an enemy.  But then again, she recalled, the _Zelbinion_ had once been thought invincible.  
  
Kranda frowned at the memory.  "A damaged Stryker went out of control and rammed into our hammond side."  
  
"We've seen the damage," Dak nodded.  "Half the outer ring was blown away."  
  
"That one blow took out nearly all of our defenses on that side of the ship, not to mention the loss of power and environmentals.  The Hammond side hangar bays even lost their containment fields."  
  
Aeryn felt her throat constrict.  John would have been in one of those bays.  "All hands lost?" she asked, managing to squeeze a whisper past the blockage.  
  
Kranda shook his head.  "Fortunately for all of us, no.  The emergency power finally cut in after about twenty microts, before the bays had completely vented.  About half of the techs who were in those bays survived."  
  
The tight feeling eased slightly.  _Half._   John was a survivor.  Surely....  
  
"Anyway, that's where the Scarrans managed to get breaching pods aboard.  And there wasn't a frelling thing we could do about it; with the bays on emergency power, we couldn't open the pressure doors to mount a counter-attack.  It took about a quarter of an arn to get main power rerouted and get in there.  We figured they'd be heavily entrenched by that point, and we'd never pry them out."  
  
"Frell," Dak whispered.    
  
Aeryn, too, could picture the situation as it might have occurred, and the near impossibility of driving back an enemy with the advantage of a fortified position without destroying the ship in the process.  "What happened?" she asked.  
  
Kranda just shook his head, looking almost...awestruck?  "I'm not entirely sure.  The only crewmen on that deck when the Scarrans arrived were a single sub-officer and maybe fifty techs.  And yet, somehow, they managed to prevent a force of nearly a hundred Scarran warriors from getting a foothold until our troops arrived."  
  
"A sub-officer," Aeryn said, trying to seem nonchalant.  _Crichton.  It had to be Crichton._  
  
"Yes.  The deck officer."  
  
"Is this the same one you were telling me about?  The one you wanted to rip to shreds?" Aeryn asked curiously.  
  
"That's the one."    
  
Aeryn breathed a silent sigh of relief.  
  
"He beat a hundred Scarrans?"  Lt. Dak sounded skeptical, and Aeryn noticed with some amusement that he was dismissing the presence of the techs completely.  
  
"I wouldn't put it _that_ way," Kranda replied, shaking his head.  "He didn't actually manage to kill very many of them.  I'm not sure what this guy did, but whatever it was left the Scarrans massively disorganized, and therefore much easier to defeat when the security forces finally arrived.  All I do know is what I saw just as we finally broke through."  
  
Aeryn blinked.  She'd never heard Kranda use that tone before, full of uncharacteristic awe and respect, unless he was discussing some ancient Peacekeeper hero like Dacon or Durka.  
  
"And what was that?" Dak asked, his curiosity evidently piqued.  
  
"This sub-officer was trying to rescue someone--one of the techs, I think, who was wounded--when a Scarran caught him full in the face with a heat blast."  
  
"So he's dead then," Dak stated, as if there were no question.  Aeryn, however, was not surprised at Kranda's denial.  
  
"No, that's just it.  He _got up!_   And then he grabbed something, some kind of metal bar, I think.  He yelled at the Scarran--I didn't understand the words--and when the Scarran turned back around, this guy just ran him through!"  
  
"He killed a Scarran with nothing more than a metal rod?"  Now Lt. Dak was starting to sound impressed.  Aeryn, for her part, was smiling at the mental picture.    
  
"Actally," Kranda replied, "he killed _two._ "  
  
"What?"  Both Aeryn and Dak gaped in shock.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
It was a nightmare.  Or was it a memory?  Perhaps it was too much of both.  All John Crichton knew was that he was trapped and couldn't escape.  
  
The air was rushing out, leaving him gasping for breath, his joints on fire.  
  
_"Hang on!"_  
  
The air came back, but with it arrived even more bad news.  The Scarrans were coming aboard.  
  
_"But sir, we're not soldiers...."_  
  
Once he'd realized security wouldn't get there in time, John had known it was up to them.  Forty-six frightened techs and one terrified human were all that stood between their ship and the Scarrans.  J'hesta clung to his side like a limpet, her eyes wide with hero-worship, and she was the first to accept his assertion that they could do something besides die bravely.  
  
_"You gonna just stand here and let them kill you without a fight?"_  
  
Half a dozen grounded Prowlers, all fueled up with no place to go, became a battery of close-range artillery, manned by techs, shooting down Scarran breaching pods like fish in a barrel.    
  
_"Sir, we have an idea...."_  
  
His mild-mannered, self-effacing techs transformed before his eyes into amateur guerrillas, like four dozen MacGyvers on acid.  
  
The Scarrans hadn't quite known what to make of these oddball adversaries.  They didn't stand and fight like the usual Peacekeeper soldiers, and didn't use traditional weapons.  It was strike and retreat, the techs taking advantage of their quick reflexes and inventive brains.    
  
Fuel bladders became Molotov cocktails, hurled at the Scarrans from every direction until they didn't know where to turn.    
  
Common chemicals were combined in strange ways to create endothermic reaction grenades, which sucked heat from their targets and left them chilled.  The Scarrans hated those.  
  
Precious lubricants were spilled across the decks, sending the attackers slipping and sliding.  The end result of all of these unconventional defenses had left the Scarran invaders completely confused.  
  
But not helpless.  After nearly quarter of an arn of fighting, one tech's luck had run out.  Jaden Destral, a middle-aged tech whom John found eerily reminiscent of DK--or rather, the man DK might become in another twenty years--had been just a hair too slow and caught a glancing blow from one of the Scarran weapons.  He fell behind the debris of one of the destroyed breaching pods, wounded or dead.  There was no way to tell for sure.  
  
Without thinking, John had dashed out and tried to drag Destral back to safety.  He'd been careful, of course, staying behind cover as much as possible and leapfrogging forward in short, crouching runs.  Nevertheless, he was spotted.  Perhaps it was his uniform, which stood out amongst the tech jumpsuits and marked him as the one in charge, but whatever it was seemed to drive the Scarrans berserk.    
  
Just as he'd finally reached Destral's limp and bleeding form and was checking for a pulse, a primal, bestial roar of rage had echoed across the bay.  John had jumped up and spun around, just in time to catch a face full of fire.  The air seared his lungs like a blast furnace as he tried to draw breath to scream.  
  
And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.  John had collapsed to the ground, feeling charbroiled and sick.  The Scarran had turned away, dismissing him completely, and before John could speak or move, had raked its heat weapon over Destral's helpless body as well.  
  
Rage exploded like a supernova in John's mind, wiping away the pain and rising nausea.  He'd rolled to his feet and grabbed the first object that came to hand: a long, jagged length of metal from the wreckage of a breaching pod.  
  
_"If I'd wanted a suntan, I'd have gone to the frelling beach!!"_  
  
The sudden shout from an enemy it had assumed was completely helpless startled the Scarran into turning.    
  
In that split second, John had spotted the gash in the Scarran's thick hide, a chink in its otherwise impervious armor, likely a result of one of J'hesta's makeshift fragmentation grenades.  Before the Scarran could even move to defend itself, John had rammed that length of sharp metal through the opening and into its massive chest.  
  
The Scarran screeched in pain and rage, giving John a face full of hot, fetid lizard breath, and slowly toppled over.    
  
John had had no chance to savor the victory; a second reptilian roar echoed from behind him almost as the body hit the ground.  With adrenaline still surging through his veins, he had been feeling neither pain nor fear.  Weapon in hand, John spun around to face the newest onslaught.  
  
The second Scarran was bearing down on him at the fastest lumbering run it was capable of, and this one had no convenient wounds that John could target.  In desperation, as the distance closed to point blank range, he finally thrust towards the creature's open mouth and pierced through to its brain.  
  
The Scarran had been bringing its arm up, the heat already making the air shimmer, and unfortunately its death did nothing to halt the reflex.  A second wave of heat, far more intense than the first, engulfed John at that moment, and he fell into the abyss.  
  
_Pain._  
  
And then darkness.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Gradually, after what seemed like an eternity of torment, the violent memories started to fragment, leaving behind only darkness and muffled sounds.  The remembered agony transformed into the milder but no less unpleasant realities of the aftermath.  His skin burned, hot and tight and swollen, but the air wafting over him was cool, like an early morning fog drifting across a mountain lake, and it felt like heaven.  
  
He felt little better beneath the skin, his whole body consumed in aching and lassitude like the worst case of the flu he'd ever had.  His joints still ached, too, though much improved from the searing pain he'd suffered when the bay lost pressure and left him with a classic case of the bends.  
  
Something tickled at the back of his brain, dim recall from the distant past of adolescence.  A summer day, not long after the family's last move to Florida, when a young John had gone to the beach and made the mistake of falling asleep in the sun.  The burn he'd gotten that day had been awful, flushing his whole body a deep, crimson red and leaving blisters on his nose and cheeks.  He'd spent the next week in bed, wrapped in cool, wet cloths, feeling much like he did now.    
  
The memory reassured him somewhat; no matter how lousy he felt, maybe he wasn't dying after all.  
  
The quiet murmurs and footsteps he'd heard up until now coalesced into clear voices, growing nearer.    
  
"...keeping him sequestered here.  Others might find the sight of his injuries...disturbing."  
  
The first voice was male, and unfamiliar.  It was the second voice, a microt later, which sent a thrill of relief up John's spine.  
  
"I was...concerned, when I heard of his injury, that someone would assume he was Sebacean, and thus beyond recovery."  
  
John fought the fatigue and the pain, trying desperately to open his eyes and see the face that belonged to that voice.  
  
"No, ma'am," was the serious reply to Aeryn's concern.  "We all know who John Crichton is."  
  
"Has he woken?"  
  
"We roused him briefly right after he was brought in, just in case there was something we needed to know about treating these types of injuries in his species--"  
  
This was news to John; he had no memory of any such conversation.  
  
"--but we've kept him sedated for the past two solar days to aid healing."  
  
"Ah."  Aeryn sounded disappointed.  John was still trying to open his eyes, or move a muscle, even just twitch a finger, but it was as if there was a double-paned wall of glass standing between him and his body.  
  
"He should regain consciousness soon, Officer," the tech--for so John presumed the man was--reassured Aeryn.  "We estimate about two arns."  
  
_Hah.  Shows what you know._   He struggled, beating against the wall, determined to see Aeryn's face before she left.  
  
"Officer Sun!"  
  
This was a third voice, also male.  John stopped fighting and lay quiet.  The sheer authority contained in those two spoken words said 'senior officer'.  Best to stay inconspicuous.  
  
"Lieutenant Dak," Aeryn replied, her greeting mild and curious, lacking the sharp snap to attention that typically accompanied the arrival of a ranking officer.  This was someone she knew, then, and was comfortable with.  
  
"Your pilot friend might have believed your excuses, Sun, but I saw you reaction to that tale he was spinning us.  You knew something you weren't telling him."  
  
There was a pause, and then, "Yes, sir."  John could almost see the small, secretive smile in that resigned tone.  
  
"Is this him, then?  Our infamous deck officer who can kill Scarrans with his bare hands?"  
  
Aeryn must have nodded confirmation.  "His name is Crichton, sir."  
  
"From the look of those burns, he ought to be dead, but I clearly heard the tech claim he'd be waking up soon.  What is he, some kind of special directorate engineered super-soldier?"  
  
John felt his mouth twist into a smirk; apparently the drugs were wearing off at last.  He quickly schooled his expression, hoping the man hadn't noticed.  
  
There was a moment of silence, and John wondered if Aeryn was thinking of letting him continue to think that, as part of preserving John's protective anonymity.  But then she seemed to decide on honesty, instead.  She must trust this lieutenant a great deal.  
  
"No, sir.  He's not Sebacean at all, and not susceptible to heat delirium."  
  
"Not Sebacean?"  For the moment, John was happy enough to have his eyes closed, so he didn't have to see the look of disgust that went with that tone of voice.  "But how--?  Wait a microt...wasn't there something about an alien the captain brought aboard?  One who looked so much like us that you couldn't tell the difference?  What was it, three cycles ago?"    
  
"Actually, not quite two cycles."  
  
"And they made him a _Peacekeeper_?"  
  
"At the captain's request."  Aeryn was being very carefully noncommittal.  
  
"Huh."  The short exclamation was thoughtful, and oddly lacking its former hostility.  "But I still don't see how one man could have held off that many Scarran troops all by himself."  
  
"Didn't."  
  
The new voice was low and rough, barely a whisper; it took John a second to realize it was his own.  
  
"Crichton?"  
  
This time, when he tried to open his eyes, they cooperated somewhat.  The room was dimly lit, thankfully, and his bleary vision eventually cleared enough to make out Aeryn's figure leaning over him.  "Hey," was all he could manage as a greeting, rasping the syllable out of a parched throat.  
  
She disappeared then, and John wondered if he'd said something wrong.  But then a moment later she was back, along with a nurse who offered him water.  He sipped a little, then reached for more with the desperation of a drowning man seeking air.  
  
"Slowly, sir," was the polite but firm admonition from the nurse.  
  
Looking around as he took tiny sips of precious water, John realized he was lying in a far corner of one of the ship's odd, multi-level medical areas, near the base of one of the stairstep mist generators.  He was subtly screened off from the view of others by the generator and some portable partitions.    
  
What little John could see of himself was not pretty, and he could understand the efforts to discourage gawkers.  The skin on the right side of his bare chest was red, swollen, and starting to peel.  His arms, loosely wrapped in a cooling, translucent bandage, looked to be riddled with blisters.  He'd gotten his arms up to protect his face when the Scarran's heat blasted him, so it wasn't surprising that they had taken the brunt of the damage.  
  
Aeryn and her lieutenant waited--Aeryn patiently, the lieutenant less so.  As his mind started to clear from the drugged fog, John realized they both looked utterly exhausted.  Aeryn at least, he remembered, had been worn out from a difficult assignment even before the Scarran dreadnought entered the picture, and had gotten no time to rest.  He wondered how many solar days it had been since she last slept.  
  
"You okay?" he asked, once his throat finally felt more like flesh and less like sandpaper.  
  
She nodded, then shrugged, which John supposed covered the situation rather well.  She was alive and uninjured, true enough, but she was also about ready to collapse where she stood.  
  
"You should get some rest," he suggested.  
  
She looked over at the lieutenant, who smiled and nodded.  "Dismissed, Officer Sun."  
  
John wanted to reach out for her, touch her hand before she left, but such things just were not done here, at least not where others could see.  He watched as she vanished around the edge of the partition that surrounded him, leaving the mist swirling in her wake.  
  
It took a microt for him to notice that the lieutenant was still standing nearby, looking down at him with a speculative expression.  
  
"Sir?"  He wondered what the man wanted with him now.  
  
"Feel up to answering some questions, Sub-officer?"  
  
"Questions?"  He was still a bit fogged with drugs, but he quickly caught himself.  "I mean, yes, sir."  
  
"Good."  Dak nodded.  "I won't stay long; these doctors can be vicious."  
  
John smiled slightly at the joke, wondering if the man was uncomfortable talking to an alien as a near-equal and was using humor to ease the tension.  
  
"I was wondering before how a single soldier could have held off dozens of Scarran troops all by himself.  I don't see how it's possible."  
  
"That's because it's not."  
  
"Are you saying the report I heard was wrong?"  
  
"I'm not sure what you heard, sir, but I wasn't alone in that hangar."  
  
"What, the techs?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"What could techs possibly do against trained soldiers?  Against _Scarrans?_ "  
  
"You know, Lieutenant, they asked me that very same question.  You'd be surprised; I know _they_ were."  
  
"You gave them weapons?"  
  
"None to give 'em, sir, just my one lousy pulse pistol."  
  
"Then how the frell--"  
  
"You were right in a way, Lieutenant," John broke in.  "They aren't soldiers.  If I'd handed them rifles, they'd have fought badly and died quickly.  What I did instead was let them play to their own strengths."  
  
Dak tilted his head to the right, silently inviting John to clarify.  
  
"They know this ship, and especially those hangar bays, better than anyone else.  They also know exactly how many ways those areas can kill you, because they've seen it happen too many times.  Next to the generator room, it's one of the most dangerous places to work on the entire carrier.  I just let them prove that to the Scarrans."  
  
He could see the soldier's forehead furrowing as he tried to understand.  "Try this, sir," John continued.  "Imagine it was you, your team, trying to take an enemy vessel.  You go in, and you're expecting to face resistance from armed troops.  But instead, you see no one, and find yourself under attack from all sides by things you can't identify.  Things that explode on impact, or rupture and spill.  The explosives spray your troops with shrapnel or engulf them in fire.  The other objects might douse you with toxins, or spray chemicals that suck the heat from your body, or just coat the floor with goo that makes it impossible to keep your footing.  And all from an enemy you can't see, and therefore can't strike back at effectively."  
  
"Frell..."  
  
John could see the gears turning behind Dak's eyes.  He was about to say more, when he happened to glance past the lieutenant and out into the misty chamber.  He froze.  
  
A tall figure, all in black.  Hooded.  A flash of ghost-white skin.  
  
John squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, desperately willing the vision away.  _It's just a hallucination.  It's not real._  
  
"Crichton?  Crichton!"  The sharp voice snapped John out of his panic, forcing his eyes open.  Dak was staring at him with combined annoyance and concern.  Warily, John glanced back at the spot across the room, but the shadow figure was gone.  
  
"Are you ill?  Should I summon a tech?" Dak asked gruffly.  
  
"Nah."  John waved away the suggestion with a bandaged arm.  "I'm fine.  Sorry about that; must be the drugs."    
  
_That, or the fact that I am completely losing my mind,_ he thought darkly.  It was yet more evidence of his ongoing mental breakdown.  Instead of just hearing Scorpius, now he was seeing the bastard, too.  
  
The lieutenant dragged John's attention back to the previous discussion before he could dwell on that subject any more.  He spent the next half an arn explaining his actions, and those of the techs, in greater detail.    
  
By the time John finished, his audience seemed to have forgotten about him being alien.  Or perhaps he simply no longer cared.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
It took ten solar days after he woke up before John was deemed recovered enough to return to duty.  The burns on his arms had been pretty deep, and he'd felt lousy enough for a while to be glad of the excuse to just lie in the healing mist and doze.  But the past three days had been simply tedious, and John suspected they had been keeping him sequestered for aesthetic reasons instead of medical ones.  Finally, however, his skin quit peeling, his blisters faded, and they let him go.  
  
The carrier was limping its way back to Peacekeeper space at a lowly hetch two, en route to one of the central station facilities for major structural repairs.  In the meantime, however, the surviving Prowlers and Marauders still had jobs to do, patrolling the area and protecting the crippled vessel.  All of which meant that the hangar bays were back in full operation.  
  
That first day back, as he paced the length of the bay surveying the repairs and the remaining signs of damage, John felt like he'd wandered into some strange alternate dimension.  On the one hand, there were the techs.  The events of the past weekens had apparently infused them all with a new self-confidence.  They no longer lowered their eyes or shied away from the pilots, though they were still polite and deferential.  They spoke, instead, with the authority of their expertise, and, wonder of wonders, a few of the pilots were actually _listening_.  
  
John marveled at the scene, but his pleasure was short-lived.  The invisible voice from the back of his mind mocked the sentimentality.  John had caught glimpses of the phantom Scorpius twice more during his time in the medical section, and each time the voice in his head redoubled its intensity.  Long months of practice kept him from showing too much outward reaction, but inside he was cringing.  It was nearly constant now, though it seemed to fade when he was around other people, as if the wraith did not want to risk calling attention to itself by distracting him in front of witnesses.  It was growing harder and harder to ignore as it continued to badger him about wormholes, taunting him with promises of home and threats of imminent capture.   And yet, despite the increasing severity, John still hadn't been able to make himself tell anyone about the problem.  Every time he had started to confess his affliction to one of the doctors, his voice failed him and nothing emerged.     
  
"Like what you see?" Avena asked, appearing at John's elbow.  She had been in charge of the bay during John's absence, and if what he was seeing was any indication, he might as well just go back to bed and let her continue to run things.  
  
The voice in his head faded to a whisper, allowing him to maintain at least the appearance of sanity for the moment.  He nodded at the rush and bustle before him.  "It's what I wanted," he affirmed, "but the price was too high."  There were too many familiar faces missing from the crowd.  
  
Avena tsked.  "We Peacekeepers pay that price every day, sir, to serve our people.  Those who were lost would be proud to know they spent their lives in service."  
  
They paused at the far end of the bay to watch a half-squadron of Prowlers glide into the landing bay and touch down on the deck.  The pilots, too, had taken heavy losses during the battle with the Dreadnought.  Nearly a third of the ships had been destroyed, though some of their pilots had managed to eject and been retrieved.  There wasn't a single regiment that hadn't suffered massive casualties.   
  
"I wanted to ask you, Chief..." John started, then paused.  
  
"Ask me what, sir?"  
  
"I want to do something.  For the techs, to reward them for everything they accomplished.  But somehow, giving them a few days off just doesn't seem like enough anymore, and I'm not sure what else I could give that would properly express how grateful I am."  
  
The older woman stared, then smiled.  "And to think I believed you could no longer surprise me, sir."  
  
"Well, we can't let that happen," John joked back.  "Think how boring your life would be."  This, too, was a surprise; his relationship with Avena had always been one of utter professionalism and strict protocol, to the point that John hadn't been sure the woman even possessed a sense of humor.  To learn that she did hide one beneath her severe mask was a pleasant change.  "The only other thing I can think of," he went on, veering back onto his original topic, "would be to offer them a chance at a transfer to some less dangerous assignment."  
  
Avena actually gasped.  "No, sir, please.  Don't do that, not if your intent is truly to reward them."  
  
"Why the hell not?"  
  
She paused, glancing away as if marshalling her thoughts.  "I think I can safely speak for all of us, sir, when I say we would rather be here.  Serving under your command is preferable to that of any other officer aboard ship."  
  
It was John's turn to gape in astonishment.  
  
"Do you realize, sir, that you have not executed even one tech for a failure during your tenure here?  Nor have you even truly punished anyone for making mistakes, unless those mistakes were the result of negligence.  On the contrary; you have risked yourself to defend us all.  Do you understand how rare that is?  We would gladly face far more danger than this for the privilege of being treated so fairly.  Please, sir, if you care for these people at all, do not send them away.  They would rather serve you, even knowing what you are, than any pureblood Sebacean officer."  
  
John was amazed.  And flattered.  And humbled.  And then he realized what Avena had just said and everything ground to a halt.  "Wait...you're telling me that they _know_...."  
  
"That you're an alien?  Of course.  All the techs do.  We know far more about what goes on aboard our carrier than anyone gives us credit for, and you have been a favorite subject of tech gossip almost since the moment you came aboard.  We knew Gilina Renaez loved you, and you her.  We knew the captain blamed you for the death of Lt. Crais, and sent you here as punishment, intending you to die or wither away in disgrace.  Most people in your situation would have taken out their resentment on their subordinates; instead, you chose to help us.  Is it any wonder that so few of us care what race birthed you anymore?"  
  
John looked away from Avena's earnest, sincere eyes and gazed around the bay at his crew.  He had treated them by the Golden Rule, as he would want to be treated himself.  Now he reaped what he had sown.  "Fair enough.  Do you have any suggestions?  About the reward?"  
  
She thought about it for a moment, her eyes moving across the bay from person to person.  "I do have one idea, sir."  She looked sideways at him, the corners of her eyes wrinkling in bemusement.  "But you may find it a bit strange."  
  
"'Strange' is practically my middle name, Avena, you know that."  He smiled back encouragingly.  "Lay it on me."  
  
She told him what she had in mind, and she was right.  It was a bit odd.  But the more he thought about the techs he'd known over the past two cycles, the more it made perfect sense.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Forty solar days had passed since the end of the Scarran attack, and for the first time in all those weekens Aeryn Sun finally felt rested.  The carrier was once again deep inside Peacekeeper controlled space, which meant that the constant strain of maintaining full-strength patrols with less than three fourths of their usual complement of pilots had finally eased.  Most of the wounded were back on duty, and all the repairs that _could_ be completed with the resources available were finished.  Life was back to something approximating normal again.  
  
Aeryn was taking advantage of the respite today by indulging in a quick midmeal in the officers' lounge.  Barring some emergency, tonight would be her first opportunity to visit the environmental recreation deck since the night of the alert that preceded the Scarran engagement.  Perhaps John would be there.  
  
Sensing motion, she glanced up at the door then groaned silently.  During one of their late night conversations, some monens ago, John had explained the concept his people called "Murphy's Law".  The Peacekeepers had no such belief in the universe's perversity, but seeing Lt. Dak heading straight for her before she'd even taken her first bite, she had to wonder if the humans weren't onto something after all.  
  
"Lieutenant," she greeted, standing as he approached.  
  
"Come with me, Officer Sun," he ordered brusquely.  "I require your assistance."  
  
"Yes, sir."  She left her meal uneaten and followed at Dak's heels as he strode quickly back the way he'd come, wondering what she was in for.  
  
Instead of the Marauder bay, as she'd been expecting, Dak led Aeryn on a circuitous route through the ship's core to the hammond side Prowler bay.  She had been curious about the unusual summons before, but now she could no longer contain it.  "Sir?  If I may ask--"   
  
"You may not," he interrupted.  
  
Long cycles of bitter experience had taught Aeryn never to argue with an officer who was using that tone of voice.  The results were never positive, and usually painful.  
  
As the marched through the main hangar doors--now repaired from the damage Xelstar regiment had inflicted while trying to force their way in--Aeryn saw Lt. Malarr, commander of all carrier-based flight operations, waiting for them just inside.  The older officer nodded to Dak and fell into step with him, taking up a position behind him, mirroring Aeryn's own.  
  
Odd.  Malarr was Dak's direct superior; she ought to be leading, not following.  
  
"You, Tech!" Dak called out.  A young girl, her arms filled with an engine component that looked like it outweighed her, turned at the summons.  She snapped to attention as best she could, being so encumbered.  
  
"I wish to speak to the deck officer.  Where is he?"  
  
Aeryn blanched.  _Crichton_.  He must have stepped over the line at last.  What the frell had he done this time?  
  
The tech hesitated, glancing at each officer facing her in turn.  She bit her lip, seeming reluctant to answer.  
  
"I will not ask again, Tech," Dak growled.  "Where is Sub-officer Crichton?"  
  
Fear finally overcame the girl's reticence.  She tossed her head aft, towards a knot of people clustered around several ships.  
  
"Take us to him."    
  
She scampered off, still clutching the engine part, and they followed briskly.  Aeryn wondered how much trouble John had gotten himself into this time, and why.  Knowing Crichton, there _would_ be a reason.  
  
And why was Dak involved?  For that matter, why was _she_ here?  
  
The young tech reached Crichton first and spoke to him in a desperate whisper.  He turned to see the phalanx of senior officers bearing down on him, then placed a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder before stepping forward to meet them.  
  
"Lieutenants.  Officer."  He greeted them formally, his hands clasped behind his back.    
  
"Sub-officer Crichton.  Are you aware that there are consequences for the acts you have committed on this deck?"  Dak's voice was loud; heads turned all across the bay.  This wasn't like him.  In Aeryn's experience, Dak almost never raised his voice, not even when delivering a reprimand.  This must be very serious, to get him so worked up.  
  
"Yes, sir."  John's reply was quiet and proper, but his eyes showed his alarm and confusion.  
  
"I didn't hear you, soldier."  
  
"Sir, yes sir!" John snapped out, much louder.  All around the bay, the techs were drifting closer, concern written large on their faces.  That, more than anything, told Aeryn exactly how highly John was regarded here.  Most officers' subordinates would not have cared.  
  
"And are you prepared to face those consequences, soldier?"  Dak asked harshly, pacing around his victim like a Collarta on the hunt, still speaking loudly enough to be heard by everyone.  
  
Aeryn saw John swallow nervously, still looking confused.  Wisely, though, he simply responded, "Yes, sir."  
  
Lt. Dak stopped pacing in front of his victim and drew himself to full attention.  By reflex, Aeryn found herself following suit, bracing herself for the bad news.  She was therefore just as shocked as everyone else by Dak's next words.  
  
"Sub-officer John Crichton: in recognition of your valor and quick thinking in the recent engagement, and the actions by which you saved so many of your fellow crew members' lives--and possibly the entire ship from enemy capture--it is my honor to confer up on you the rank of full Officer."  
  
There were gasps and cheers from all around them as Dak continued through the formal field promotion ceremony.  The cheers continued even after he finished, gaining volume, until John self-consciously ordered the techs to pipe down and get back to work.  He looked dazed, and Aeryn couldn't blame him.  She didn't know whether it would be worth the reprimand to smack her commanding officer silly for scaring them like that.  
  
As the uproar finally diminished and the chattering techs wandered back to their tasks, Dak and Malarr stepped aside for a quiet conversation, leaving Aeryn and John standing alone in the middle of the cavernous hangar.  
  
"Congratulations," she said with sincerity.  
  
He glanced up at her and smiled ruefully.  "Yeah.  Sure.  Thanks."  
  
"Aren't you happy about this?"  
  
He just shrugged.  "Don't see that it changes much.  Though, on the upside, at least I don't have to call you 'sir' anymore."  They both had a brief chuckle over that.  
  
"I don't understand why you aren't pleased."  Her own promotions, especially the last one, were some of the proudest days of her life.  
  
"Is this going to change how the captain sees me, Aeryn?  Is it going to get me back to working on wormholes, so I can find a way home?  Hell, I can't even believe Crais signed off on this--"  
  
"He didn't."  Dak joined them at that moment, and Aeryn could see Lt. Malarr heading for the exit.  "I sent the recommendation to High Command myself."  
  
"Why?" John blurted out rudely.  Aeryn winced, but fortunately, despite his earlier churlish façade, Dak was actually in a fairly good mood.  
  
"Because you earned it," he explained, "and no one else was doing anything about it."  
  
For a microt it looked like Crichton was going to respond, but then his eyes shifted to one side and his mouth snapped shut.  He looked away quickly, then looked back, his eyes shifting back and forth restlessly, as if there was something he didn't want to see but couldn't help looking.  
  
Aeryn turned to look at what had drawn John's eye, and saw Lt. Malarr standing at the exit, talking to someone.  The second figure was partly hidden in the shadows, so all she could see was a hint of black leather.  After a moment they turned and disappeared into the corridors.  
  
She turned back.  "What is it?" she asked John, wondering what had upset him.  
  
"Nothing.  Just thought I saw someone I knew."  He dismissed the incident with a casual wave.  Too casual.  
  
Returning abruptly to the aborted conversation, he gave Dak his usual self-deprecating smile.  "Well, I'm sure we both know why no one else was jumping in line to pat me on the back."  
  
"True."  Dak nodded, acknowledging the point.  "And I can't say I don't understand their feelings; I'd be more comfortable if you were Sebacean, too."  
  
"Yet you managed to get past that; I'm impressed."  John's expression became sly as he glanced sideways at Aeryn.  "It took Officer Sun here six monens before she'd give me the time of day.  And after all I'd done for her, too.  Rescuing her, single-handed, from the clutches of a nasty horde of escaped criminals, risking life and limb--"  
  
Aeryn smacked him smartly across the back of his head, halting the tall tale in progress, but John just busted up laughing.  Dak joined him, more quietly but still genuinely amused, and all Aeryn could do was glare at the two of them and roll her eyes.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
That vision he'd had of Scorpius in the hangar had apparently been the last straw.  The microt that Aeryn and the others had left, the voice in John’s head transformed from a whisper to a bullhorn blasting his inner ear.  And it didn't let up for a moment.  
  
He'd tried to ignore it, tried to keep working, but after a while the hallucinations were joined by a headache the likes of which he'd never experienced, as if someone had shoved an ice pick into the back of his skull and was stirring around for something.  The techs were starting to look at him oddly, so finally he made up an excuse and left the crowded hangar for the privacy of one of the little-used storage bays.  
  
Once inside, away from the glaring lights and the quizzical stares, John stumbled forward, drawn like a compass needle to a familiar snub-nosed shape tucked into a dark, dusty corner.  He ran his hands gently over the sleek, white surface.  "Hey girl," he rasped out.  "How's it hangin'?"  
  
The _Farscape_ was silent, a condition for which John was oddly grateful.  Disembodied voices and visions of Scarran hybrids were one thing, but if inanimate objects started talking back at him....  
  
_*...blind...blind...never see it coming, will you, John?  It will all be much easier if you just give in....give me what I want.  The pain...the pain will be over...submit...surrender...I've already won....*_  
  
Oh, who the hell was he kidding?  He could feel his sanity slipping through his fingers like water.  It was just a matter of time.  "Shut up!" he demanded, grinding the heel of his hand against his left temple, and the battle was joined.    
  
Time passed unnoticed; it might have been microts or arns before his solitary struggle was interrupted.  
  
"Crichton?"  
  
From his position on the floor--he'd squeezed himself into the farthest, darkest corner of the room at some point--John looked up to see a familiar silhouette standing in the doorway.  
  
_*Ignore her...send her away...she can't help you, no one can help you...no one but me....*_  
  
"Shut up," he muttered, rubbing a hand across his scalp.  The hand came away bloody; he'd managed to scratch furrows into his skin fighting the voices.  
  
Aeryn must have heard his voice; she stepped into the room and moved unerringly towards him.  "Why are you hiding down here, Crichton?  Visiting that archaic pile of dren you call a spaceship?"  Her voice was light, teasing.  "Come on, you should be celebrating--"  
  
As she stepped around the _Farscape_ and finally caught a good look at him, she gasped.  "What's wrong?  Are you injured?"  
  
_*Tell her to go away...do it...if you don't, I will_ make _her go away, and you wouldn't like that, now, would you John?*_  
  
"Go away, Aeryn."  
  
She shook her head, all stubborn resolve, and crouched down in front of John's huddled form.  "What's wrong?" she repeated.  "Tell me."  
  
He gestured feebly towards his head, unable to form the necessary words.  
  
"The voices?"  Her look of concern deepened.    
  
John nodded, the motion more of a twitch than a controlled gesture.  Then he groaned and leaned forward, grabbing his skull in an attempt to contain the explosion that seemed suddenly imminent.  
  
"Is it as bad as before?"  She sat down on the floor beside him and placed a cool hand against the sweat-soaked hair at the back of his head.  
  
"Worse," he managed to croak, leaning back into that blessed touch.  It seemed to ease the pain just a little.  
  
The peace was fleeting however.  John suddenly leapt to his feet, unable to keep still, and started pacing restlessly.  His arms wrapped around his ribs in unconscious mockery of a straitjacket.   
  
Aeryn's face contorted with both concern and frustration at her own helplessness.  "You have to be strong, Crichton.  Fight it!"  
  
"I'm trying.  I'm trying--Shut up, you bastard!  Stop it!--I can't...he's yelling, wearing me down.  He wants control, he wants me to go to Scorpius...."  
  
"Scorpius is gone, John, you know that."  
  
"I know, I know.  Tell _him_ that!"  He waved vaguely at his head.  "I've been seeing him, you know.  Flashes.  Everywhere.  Ever since the Scarrans boarded.  They couldn't have brought him aboard, could they?"  
  
"No, John.  Any intruder would have been discovered long ago; you know how tight security has been."  
  
"Yeah.  Sure."  John continued to pace, his agitation rising by the microt, taking occasional pointless swipes at his head, like trying to shoo away the horsefly that was buzzing around inside his skull.  
  
"What can I do, John?  How can I help?  If you told the medtechs--"  
  
John burst into slightly hysterical giggles.  "Can't.  Tried that.  Don't think anything'll help, anyway, short of a chakan-oil lobotomy."  He chuckled at his own joke, while Aeryn frowned.  "That's elective surgery, though--don't think it's covered by my insurance."  Another wave of hysterical laughter escaped, despite his efforts to hold it in.  
  
Aeryn stood and grabbed John's shoulders, halting him in mid-step.  "Not this time, Crichton.  You're going to come with me, and you're going to tell the techs everything."  
  
John shook his head, trying to back away, but she held tight.  "But Crais--"  
  
"Doesn't need to know.  Trust me, John, the techs will keep him from finding out.  They seem to like you, for some strange reason.  If you ask them to keep it quiet, they'll do it.  I promise.  Let them help."  
  
Another jerky nod was all the reply John could muster.  As Aeryn led him through the halls, her hand firmly clamped around his upper arm, the wraith in his head howled in protest and clawed for control.  Several times along the route he came close to collapsing when the pain and struggle became too much, but Aeryn's firm hold and stubborn resolve kept him on his feet and moving forward.  
  
The sudden increase in pressure from the mental specter he'd once nicknamed 'Harvey', instead of depressing him, actually brought him hope.  If it was so desperate to keep him away from the medtechs, then maybe there _was_ something they could do to rid him of it.  Why else would it care?  
  
He let Aeryn do the talking, let her say the words he had so far been unable to force past his own larynx.  The techs frowned, asked questions John couldn't hear over the din between his ears, and got those grim, thoughtful looks that were common to doctors on both sides of the universe.  
  
While the techs were setting up their tests, John realized it was getting late, and suggested to Aeryn that she go get some sleep.  "No need for both of us to be walking around like zombies tomorrow," he pointed out.  
  
"No, John.  I'm staying."  She folded her arms stubbornly.  "I'm not going to let you go through this alone."  
  
John lowered his voice.  "Aeryn, I love that you want to help.  I really do.  But you can't stay; that's just asking for trouble.  What if someone sees you?  They'll wonder why you're so concerned about some guy who's not even part of your unit.  You'd be up on report before you could say 'irreversible contamination'."  
  
She bit her lip, caught for a microt in a conflict between duty and feeling, then raised her chin defiantly.  "I don't care."  
  
He silenced any further protests with a single finger on her lips.  "But I do," he said quietly.  "The last thing I want to do is drag you down with me.  You deserve better."  
  
"But--"  
  
Two off-duty soldiers walked in, one of them supporting the other, who was limping badly.  A training accident, by the looks of it.  The healthy man dropped his companion off on an examination table and turned to leave, giving John and Aeryn an odd look as he passed by.  
  
John raised an eyebrow at her as his point was driven home.  He put his hands on her shoulders.  "Aeryn, please, just go.  I promise I'll be a good boy and do what the docs tell me." He saw one of the techs heading their way and felt Harvey's ghostly fingers scrabble wildly for control once again.  Twisting his neck with the effort, he managed to force the wraith back down, then tried to pretend he had just been stretching some sore muscles.  "You go on," he said to Aeryn, attempting a reassuring smile.  
  
She wasn't buying the act, he could tell, but she nodded anyway, showing great reluctance.  "All right, if you insist.  I'll stop by the hangar deck tomorrow at the midmeal, so you can tell me what the techs had to say."  
  
_And to make sure I really did stick around for the tests and didn't sneak off when your back was turned,_ John added the unspoken reason in his head.  He smiled, relishing Aeryn's forceful and forthright brand of caring.  "See you tomorrow," he agreed.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
Later, as the arns crept towards morning, John was glad he'd sent Aeryn off to catch some shuteye.  He certainly hadn't gotten any himself.  
  
On the upside, once the techs started their testing, his own personal Harvey seemed to resign itself to its fate and stopped trying to wrestle his body away from him.  Instead, it settled for a constant barrage of verbal abuse.  The techs had been treated to a few of John's one-sided dialogues, as he argued and pleaded for the voice to Just.  Shut.  Up.  
  
Once the tests were done, John had waited nearly an arn while they compiled and analyzed their data, hoping against hope that they'd find a cure.  A treatment.  Something.  _Anything_ to pull him back from the razor's edge of sanity he was teetering on.  
  
But it only took one look at their faces when they came to tell him to dash those hopes onto the floor.  
  
There was something in his head, they told him.  Something that didn't belong there, that hadn't been there when they first examined him nearly two cycles ago.  At first John didn't understand, but then the tech touched the back of John's head to demonstrate where the foreign object was lodged, and the simple touch sparked a memory.  
  
_Scorpius.  Something in his hand.  Something metallic and sharp.  John hadn't paid attention at the time, unable to pull his eyes or his mind away from the body sprawled on the floor nearby.  Then pain, stabbing pain at the base of his skull, and darkness.  His next memory was Aeryn.  And Stark.  
_  
"The bastard put something in my head," John murmured, breaking the silence of his empty quarters.  He wondered what Aeryn would make of that revelation.  It wasn't the deficient human going off the deep end due to stress or too long in space, after all.  This was something Scorpius had done to him.  No wonder he was hallucinating the bastard around every corner.  And no wonder Harvey was always badgering him about wormholes.  
  
But while the revelation was comforting in one respect, that his visions had been somehow 'real' all this time and not figments of his imagination, it was also unfortunate that he _wasn't_ suffering from transit madness, since the techs could have actually done something about _that_.  With this, they were stumped.  Whatever that Scarran half-breed had plugged into his skull might have started out small, but according to the scans the techs had spent the night running and re-running, it had grown, spread, and burrowed its way deep into his brain's delicate circuitry.  They'd never seen anything like it before, they'd told him sheepishly, so they didn't know if it was even possible to remove it without causing death or severe brain damage.  
  
They'd promised to keep studying the problem and let him know.  
  
Just as the lights finally snapped on, heralding the start of his shift, the comms in John's quarters crackled to life.  
  
"Officer Crichton," addressed the voice of Crais' second in command, Lt. Teeg.  "Report to Captain Crais' office immediately."  
  
Beneath the sound of his own voice acknowledging the order, John could hear Harvey chuckle and mutter, _*I told you so, John.*_  
  
Great.  Just great.  Somehow Crais must have found out about Crichton's little 'problem'.  Whether that had been accomplished through surveillance or was simply the result of a report from the med techs, the result was the same.  And if it _had_ been one of the techs, John couldn't really find it in his heart to blame them.  Crais was their commanding officer, after all, and no matter how much of a self-righteous asshole the man was, they had all sworn their loyalty to him a long time ago.  John was nothing compared to that, just an odd alien specimen who'd been dropped into their laps.  
  
Well, there was no point in delaying the inevitable.  Making Crais wait would just make things worse in the long run.  With just a quick glance in the mirror to assess his appearance--shadows under the eyes, mussed hair, rumpled and grease-stained uniform--he shrugged and headed for the door.  Making a good impression was pretty low on his priority list this morning, and Crais would probably relish the opportunity to complain about his slovenliness.  
  
Two hundred microts later, he was standing outside the double doors to the captain's office.  
  
"Ah, _Officer_ Crichton, come in."  Captain Crais gave a nasty sneer to John's new title.  
   
"Reporting as ordered, sir."  John saluted, keeping his eyes firmly forward and ignoring the latest hallucination.  The silent apparition of Scorpius--no, _Harvey_ \--was lurking just out of the corner of his eye, near the dais at the back of the large office.  
   
Crais' eyes raked over John's sloppy uniform and sweat-matted hair, but strangely, he said nothing about it.  "As of this moment, Officer, you are relieved of your duties as deck officer.  You are being reassigned."  
   
John blinked.  Well, well, perhaps he'd been wrong and Crais _didn't_ know about his late-night visit to the medtechs.  Which meant this was just more of the same old crap, finding new and unique ways to screw him over.  _Come on, Captain Crunch,_  he thought tiredly, _quit gloating and just get on with it._  
   
"My first choice for your new duty station was as a target during the next Prowler exercise."  John still showed no reaction, and Crais frowned.  "Our guest, however, has persuaded me that you can still be of some small use in another capacity."  
   
"Guest, sir?" John asked curiously.  Had someone just arrived aboard?  Was the Admiral back?  
   
Crais' scowl deepened.  "I did not realize your eyesight was quite so deficient as that."  
   
"Hello, Crichton."  
   
It was the oily voice of his nightmares and his insanity, but this time something was different.  He was _hearing_ it, with his ears, not from within his own mind.  
   
Glancing towards the sound, he saw his earlier hallucination leaning over his right shoulder, mere denches away.  There was a wash of hot breath on his cheek.  
  
And he knew.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
When the midmeal arrived, as promised, Aeryn made her way over to the Prowler deck to find John.  As she walked through the main doors, she met Kranda and his squadron heading out, still clad in their flight suits and with helmets in hand.  Probably just returning from a patrol.  
  
"Sun!" her former squad mate greeted her brightly.  "Slumming down here with us lowly Prowler jockeys again?  I'm going to start to think you miss us if you keep this up."  
  
"Not likely," she growled back, matching his teasing with her own.  
  
"We were heading up to the lounge for some refreshment; care to join us?"  Several others in the squad, primarily the ones she'd flown with when she'd been in the unit herself, nodded and seconded the invitation.  
  
Aeryn shook her head, honestly regretful.  "I'd love to, but there's something I have to do first."  
  
"Duty over pleasure, I understand.  If you get done in time, come find us."  
  
"I will."  Hopefully, her talk with Crichton wouldn't take too long.  
  
After parting with her old compatriots, Aeryn made a quick scan of the huge chamber, looking for John, but did not immediately spot him.  It was odd--he ought to have been expecting her, and it wasn't like there was anything pressing happening on the deck to distract him.  All was quiet.  
  
After walking half the length of the bay without seeing any sign of her quarry, Aeryn finally approached a young tech working by herself in one of the smaller maintenance bays.  She opened her mouth to ask about Crichton, then forgot what she'd been about to say as the tech's project distracted her attention.  Perched on the work bench was a standard Prowler comms array, and right next to it, a piece of equipment that Aeryn couldn't identify.  The design looked Scarran.  
  
Though Aeryn hadn't made a sound, the tech glanced up and gasped in surprise.  "Sir!  Sorry sir, I didn't see you there!"  
  
Aeryn waved her apologies away.  "It's all right, Tech, I can see you were concentrating on your work.  What are you working on, by the way?"    
  
The young woman went into a long, involved explanation involving Peacekeeper and Scarran signals technology, and her attempts to adapt the former to avoid interception by the latter.  Aeryn boggled, both at her own uncharacteristic curiosity about something so clearly outside her purview, and at how much of the tech's explanation she actually understood.  
  
"Is there a problem, Officer Sun?"  
  
Aeryn turned.  The chief tech, whom John had previously introduced to her as Avena, had approached without her noticing.  "No problem, Chief," she assured the woman.  "I was looking for someone, but the tech's project caught my eye.  I'm impressed; isn't this the kind of work that would usually be assigned to a comms specialist?"  
  
Avena nodded.  "We have no such specialist aboard at the moment, however, so Tech J'hesta is in charge of the project."  
  
"Crichton assigned this to her?"  Aeryn could see him ignoring such details of rank protocol if it suited him.  
  
"Not precisely.  It's part of Officer Crichton's reward program."  
  
_Reward?_   Aeryn glanced over at the young tech, who was laboring hard during a time that she should have been free to relax.  It seemed more of a punishment than a reward--until the girl glanced up at them and grinned.  She was clearly having the time of her life.  It was, Aeryn realized, perhaps like someone offering her the chance for an arn of free and undirected flight in her old Prowler.  A rare gift, indeed.  
  
"After our confrontation with the Scarran boarding party," Avena explained, "Officer Crichton was looking for a way to show his appreciation, since we don't receive promotions or decorations like soldiers.  So he awarded each tech who participated in the encounter a free arn every second shift--barring alerts or other emergencies, of course--to work on a project of their own choosing.  If the projects show success, the time allotted to them is increased.  J'hesta here is already getting an arn every shift, and works through her midmeal break to increase that further.  She's making good progress."  
  
Aeryn shook her head, one corner of her mouth quirking up.  Techs were weird.  And the strangest one of them all--  
  
Suddenly she remembered why she had come here in the first place.  "Chief, can you tell me where I can find Officer Crichton?  I was supposed to meet him here."  
  
Avena and the young tech shot glances at each other, faces filled with worry and nervousness, but so quickly that Aeryn might have easily missed the exchange.  "I don't know, sir," was Avena's careful reply.  "I...I haven't seen him recently."  
  
She was a poor liar, and Aeryn felt dread settle into her stomach.  "He didn't report for duty at all today, did he?"  She pinned her older woman with her best commando glare.    
  
It worked--Avena might have wanted to dissemble some more, but what came out of her mouth was a simple, "No."  
  
Aeryn indulged herself in a few microts of silent profanity, fists clenched tight, then took a deep breath.  "And you didn't report it?"  
  
"Well, uh..." Avena fumbled, looking panicked.  "I didn't think it was my...I mean, I wasn't sure--"  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Avena stopped in mid-babble and gaped at Aeryn in shock.  "Sir?"  
  
"For protecting him.  I don't know if you've noticed, but Crichton has been having some...problems lately--"  
  
"The visions."  
  
Aeryn gaped.  "You know about those?"  
  
The other woman just smiled, though there was no humor in it.  "With all due respect, Officer, we've spent far more time with him than you have.  He hides it well, but yes, we've noticed.  It's gotten worse these past few weekens, but we've respected his wishes and haven't mentioned it."  
  
Aeryn shook off her surprise and nodded.  "I finally forced him to go to the medtechs last night.  Hopefully his absence just means they're still--"  
  
The blare of an alarm shattered the quiet conversation, causing all three women to jump.  The announcement that followed shattered all trace of Aeryn's former hope.  Security was on the lookout for Officer John Crichton, to be detained for the attempted murder of a fellow Peacekeeper.  There were no details.  Obviously, though, he'd become mentally unbalanced--more so even than the night before.  The most recent reported sighting was not too far from where she now stood.  
  
J'hesta looked up at Aeryn, her face pinched with worry.  "Do you think he's coming here, sir?"  
  
Just as she was about to answer, Aeryn saw a dozen security grots pour into the hangar through every entrance.  "I hope not," she said quietly, "but if he's this far gone, I don't know what he'll do.  I should have taken him to the medtechs sooner."  
  
Then Aeryn realized there was something else near John's last known location, something security might not think of.  She shot a quick question at the two techs, and at the affirmative replies, took off at a dead run.  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
From the shadowed recesses of a cramped access tunnel, John held his breath as another squad of security pounded past, the sound of his own heart in his ears nearly drowning out the tattoo of their boots on the deck.  
  
_Gotta get out.  
  
*This is pointless, John.*  
  
Gotta get away.  
  
*There's nowhere you can run, John.*_  
  
Possibly true, but he'd be damned if he was going to be taken alive, or a least without a fight.  Not that he didn't _already_ have a fight on his hands, what with Scorpy's damned chip clawing for control every step of the way.  So far John was holding his own through sheer cussedness and rage; he didn't want to think about what would happen if he dropped his guard.  
  
How the hell had things gone so wrong so quickly?  Just yesterday, he'd been accepting a promotion and allowing himself to start thinking he could fit in here, be accepted.  Now all that was gone, wiped away by a single act of desperation, leaving him with no one to turn to and no place to go.    
  
It was all Scorpius' fault, of course.  The Scarran half-breed--who by all rights should be the one being hunted in John's place--had somehow wormed his way into Crais' good graces, making promises and telling Crais exactly what he wanted to hear.  Scorpius was using the captain's grief--and greed--to further his own nefarious plans.  
  
John had been so sure, so confident that Scorpius would never be able to bother him again.  The admiral's report should have guaranteed that.  From the hints dropped during that nightmare interview in the captain's office, however, the admiral had never reached High Command to deliver that report, and the cocky smirk on Scorpy's face told John that the half-breed had somehow had a hand in the assassination.  
  
The corridor was quiet at last, so John wriggled his way out of his snug hiding place and moved quietly on towards his destination.  His life here was gone now, his position, his friends, every ounce of respect he'd earned for himself over the past two cycles.  All stolen away by Scorpius in a single stroke.  John only had one thing left, one object to call his own.  She was his last hope, his only chance of escape, and barring that, at least they could leave this place, this frelled up life, the same way they'd arrived.  Together.  
  
There was no one standing guard over the storage bay when he arrived.  Good.  Apparently his module, like his alien origins, had been gradually forgotten over the cycles.  
  
It took less than two hundred microts, using tricks Gilina had taught him in those long-gone, happy days before Scorpius, to override the controls on the main access doors.  Launching the _Farscape_ took even less time--she was still fueled and flight-ready despite the passage of time and the layers of dust.  
  
As the module shot out into the main hangar, John caught a brief glimpse of some soldiers trying to bring weapons to bear.  None of them got close to hitting such a fast-moving target, though, and within microts John was racing through the huge maw of the hangar bay and out into open space.  
  
"Wahoo!" he shouted with exhilaration, throwing the module into a caper of rolls and acrobatics for which it had most emphatically not been designed.  He let himself become completely consumed by the joy of free flight in space after so many months and years trapped inside that great tin can.  He was determined to enjoy these moments to the fullest, since they would probably be his last.  Any microt now, Crais would order him shot down and it would all be over in a flash.  But this moment belonged to John Crichton, astronaut, and nothing could take that away from him.  
  
That peaceful resignation to fate, however, vanished utterly a moment later when John caught sight of something wondrous and rare not far from his course.  A bluish-gray planet, shining faintly in the light of a distant sun.  It was a frozen ball of ice, smaller than Earth, but still large enough to have held on to a shroud of atmosphere.  It was Mars dressed in blue, and adequate for John's needs.  
  
He'd bought himself some time by exiting the carrier from the hammond side, where there was still no functional weaponry.  It wouldn't take long for the ship to change course and pursue him, though, and even as crippled as it was, the carrier could still run the _Farscape_ down without any trouble.  One sling-shot around this heaven-sent little planet, however, and he could leave his pursuers in the dust for good.  
  
Maybe.  It would be a massive risk; even considering it was insane.  Without knowing anything about this planet--the gravity, the density of the atmosphere, the magnetic fields--he would have no way to calculate a proper entry vector.  It would have to be done the Jack Crichton way--by the seat of his flight suit.    
  
With one hand, John unconsciously fingered the puzzle ring that still hung around his neck under his uniform.  The ring's original owner had been the first human to fly in space.  That great man had later given the ring as a gift to another space traveler, a man who had walked on the moon.  And now Jack Crichton's son had taken it further yet, unknown hundreds or millions of light-years from where it had been forged.  He wondered what Gagarin would say if he knew.  
  
As he dove towards the alien atmosphere, John saw a bolt of energy shoot past his starboard wing.  The carrier must have turned in pursuit, but the fact that they'd missed told him they were still a good distance behind.  He didn't bother looking back.  
  
"Kiss my exhaust pipe, Crais!" he shouted, though with the radio off the only one to hear the taunt was John himself.  And Harvey, but he didn't count.  
  
The chip, or the clone, or whatever it was Scorpy had called it, was being strangely quiet at the moment, perhaps realizing that any distraction would almost certainly lead to disaster.  
  
The sling-shot maneuver was the ugliest, bumpiest ride John had taken since his first spinning plunge down the wormhole, and he was just as surprised now as he'd been then to find himself still alive when it was over.  
  
He'd done it!  It hadn't been pretty, but he was free at last.  Free of Scorpius.  Free of Crais.  
  
_*This is pointless, John.  There is nowhere for you to go.*_  
  
But not free of Harvey.  
  
_*You'll never be free of me, not unless you go back. Give Scorpius what he wants.*_  
  
"Not.  Going.  To.  Happen," John growled at the disembodied voice.  
  
_*You're all alone out here, John.  No place to go, no one to help you.  You'll die out here.*_  
  
"If I die, I die, but don't count me out just yet, Leatherface.  I'll find a place, find someone to yank you out by the roots, and then I'll find a way to get home."  
  
_*I cannot allow this.*_   The pressure inside John's head increased as the clone once again fought for control.  _*I will not allow you to kill us both with this insanity!*_  
  
John was about to snap back with another smart remark when a second pulse of weapons fire flashed by outside the canopy, close enough this time to rock the tiny ship.    
  
"What the--?"  No way the carrier could have followed him through that maneuver; John had long ago calculated that the stresses inherent in the sling-shot would tear a ship that big to shreds.  
  
In spite of that, when he looked back John fully expected to see the command carrier bearing down on him.  But it wasn't the carrier.  A single Marauder was shadowing the module less than half a metra away.  It fired another shot, once again missing John by a narrow margin.  
  
How the hell had a Marauder managed to come after him so quickly?  Had he just blundered into its path by rotten luck?  Or had it somehow followed him through--  
  
A third shot grazed past the _Farscape_ 's nose, and realization struck.  That Marauder was too close.  Any commando team worth their stripes could have destroyed him with the first shot at that range.  Which meant...they were missing on purpose.  What kind of Peacekeepers fired warning shots?  
  
A sudden flare of hope, and John reached out to flip on his radio.  
  
_"--ichton, you frelling drannit, answer me!"_   A familiar voice, harsh with annoyance and desperation, blared out through the speaker.  
  
"Aeryn?"  
  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
  
She'd guessed right.  By rushing directly to her Marauder and demanding emergency clearance even as her thrusters fired, Aeryn had managed to exit the carrier less than thirty microts behind John's module and set out in solitary pursuit.  
  
She tried calling Crichton on the comms, but got no response.  Flight control, on the other hand, was far more forthcoming; Lt. Malarr confirmed Aeryn's authority to apprehend the dangerous fugitive by whatever means necessary.  The simple translation of that order was, as John would have termed it, "Shoot first and ask questions later."  
  
She wasn't going to shoot John, though, not if she could help it.  He was ill.  He needed help, and Aeryn was going to see to it that he got that help, whether he wanted it or not.  
  
When the module veered towards the nearby planet, Aeryn realized instantly what John was planning.  She called again, pleading with him to stop and talk to her, but continued to get only silence in return.  Even the warning shot over his wing got no reaction, making her wonder if John was so far into his own delusions that he wasn't aware of anything else.  And if he wasn't in possession of all his faculties, how could he hope to complete a complex and dangerous maneuver like the sling-shot?  
  
She held her breath even as she followed him in, and only remembered to breathe again when Crichton succeeded in breaking free of the atmosphere at the right moment.  He'd done it.  Somehow.  
  
She tried a third time to contact John, taking his success as a sign that he might still be in there somewhere.  If she could talk to him, she could reach him, make him listen to reason, but his continued silence wore away at her patience.  Her calls got progressively angrier until she was punctuating her demands with weapons fire, aimed close enough to singe the tiny module's skin.  
  
Finally, though, when her temper was nearly frayed to nothing, a plaintive, stricken voice called back to her.    
  
"Aeryn?"  
  
"John!  What the frell do you think you're doing?"  Tact, it seemed, had gone the way of patience.  
  
"Leaving."  Simple, to the point, and completely, frelling insane.  
  
"John, you can't do that."  
  
"I was doing just fine until you showed up.  How the hell did you do that?"  
  
Aeryn smirked, but didn't feel like letting him in on her secret.  "Pure skill, Crichton."  
  
The response was muffled, but sounded like, "Pure _something_...."  
  
It was time to try to talk him down, before he got any deeper into the dren hole he'd already dug for himself.  "John, cut your engines.  We need to talk."  
  
There was no change in the module's speed.  "I'm not going back there, Aeryn.  Either let me go or shoot me down yourself.  You're not taking me back to Scorpius."  
  
_Scorpius?_   "John, Scorpius isn't there, remember?  You've been hallucinating again."  
  
"I am not--damn it, Harvey, shut the frell up and let me think!--I'm not hallucinating, Aeryn!  He's there, aboard the carrier, and he's got Captain Crais in his hip pocket.  He wants what's in my head, but I won't let him have it.  I won't!"    
  
John's module changed course then, veering away in what was either a pathetic attempt at evasion or a worrisome lack of steering control.  She followed easily, pulling her own ship closer.  This was going to be more difficult than she'd thought.  
  
"John, calm down.  You told me you'd been having visions last night, remember?  What did the techs say?"  
  
"Scorpy put a damn chip in my head.  That's why I've been hearing him all this time.  It wasn't me losing my mind, it was the chip.  And now he wants it back."  
  
"What happened after that?  Why is security after you?  Why are you running away?"  She bit off the question before she could add a judgmental 'again'.  
  
"Can't fight.  Won't surrender.  What's left?"  
  
"John, I'm trying to help you."  
  
"Well, do us both a favor and don't.  I don't want you getting caught in the middle."  
  
"Too late for that, I think.  I'm here, you're here.  Talk to me, damn it!"  
  
"Tsk tsk, Ms. Sun.  Such language."  That was a different voice, John's and yet not.  Calm and coolly rational, it nonetheless sent shivers up Aeryn's spine.  
  
There was a growl on the comms then, a roar of rage, followed by a string of invective that was pure John Crichton.  
  
"John?" she queried.  
  
The tirade stopped and she could hear the human take a deep breath.  "Yeah, mostly."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Just now, or earlier?"  The question was dripping with sarcasm.  
  
Aeryn opened her mouth to snap at him, then bit down on her tongue.  First things first.  "After you left the med bay."  
  
"Got called to Crais' office.  Thought at first he'd found out about my little...problem."  John's voice trailed off.  
  
"And had he?" she prompted.  
  
"Hmm?  Oh, um, actually, no.  He called me there to 'reassign' me.  Scorpy was there, too."  
  
_He started hallucinating right there in the Captain's office.  Frell._   Aeryn touched the engine control, boosting the power to gradually increase her speed.  Slowly, carefully, her Marauder crept up on the small, white pod.  "John, think for a microt.  Scorpius can't be aboard the carrier.  He'd have been arrested the microt he showed his face in Peacekeeper territory.  The admiral saw to--"  
  
John interrupted her with a harsh, humorless laugh.  "The admiral's dead, Aeryn.  Never made it back to High Command.  Tragic accident in space.  S'what Scorpy told me.  Way he was smiling, I'll bet he had something to do with it."  
  
"What happened after that, John?  Why was security after you?"  As if she couldn't guess.  
  
"Crais 'n Scorpy, they had a good ol' time talkin' 'bout what they were gonna do to me.  Scorpy wants his chip out, wants the wormhole information from my brain.  Crais wants me dead.  Or worse.  So they made a deal.  Scorpy yanks his chip out, along with about half of my brain, and Crais gets to throw whatever's left of me after that into a cell so he can gloat."  
  
That had to be more hallucinations, Aeryn reasoned, dredged up from Crichton's own deepest fears.    
  
"I couldn't take it any more, Aeryn."  John's distant voice pleaded for understanding.  "Had to get away.  Escape.  One way or the other.  I tried to kill him.  Scorpy.  Chip wouldn't let me; couldn't pull the trigger.  So I ran."  
  
The insane human had pulled a weapon in Captain Crais' office, threatened an apparition only he could see, and then ran out.  No wonder security had been hard on his heels.  Aeryn was surprised Crais hadn't ordered Crichton shot on sight.  "John, come back to the ship with me.  They can take the chip out and make you well again.  You're not thinking clearly."  
  
"Actually, Aeryn, I'm clearer than I've been in a long time.  I'm not going to let that half-Scarran bastard get his hands on what the Ancients gave me.  He doesn't deserve it.  He killed Gilina.  I won't let him beat me."  
  
"John, where do you think you can go?  Your module doesn't have the range to reach a habitable planet; you'll run out of air long before you get anywhere."  
  
There was silence on the comms for a long moment, and Aeryn wondered if she'd finally gotten through.  "Better that than the alternative," John finally said quietly, dashing her hopes.    
  
_Oh, dear Cholak._   John's mind had clearly been subsumed by his own delusions.  There was no reasoning with him.  "John, I have to take you back, whether you want to go or not.  I hope someday you'll understand that I'm doing what's best for you."  She brought her weapons back online from standby, set them at their lowest power, and targeted the module's engines.  
  
"What?" John's voice called back, panic-stricken.  "No, don't--  Oh, God.  Harvey, don't!  Don't make me--  Aeryn!  Stay back...please, don't...."  The strain in John's voice was heart-wrenching as he fought his own inner demons.  Aeryn brought her finger down on the firing button, but at the last microt the module swerved away and the shot merely singed one wing.  
  
And then the chase was on.  Aeryn's skill was the greater, honed by cycles of training and trial by fire, but the tiny module, for all its primitive origins, did have an edge over her larger ship in sheer agility.  She'd have been better off in her old Prowler.  
  
John's flight path was erratic, swinging wildly between sound evasive tactics he'd learned in the past cycle of training classes, and uncontrolled, unpredictable gyrations.  Aeryn was hampered by her reluctance to hurt him, but she couldn't be sure of the reverse.  If John was no longer in control of himself, anything was possible.  Several times, he flew across her course, brushing close enough to frighten her, almost as if he were daring her to shoot him down.  
  
Finally, after a dozen such feints, the module turned and flew straight at her.  Collision course.  
  
With a wrench of the control stick, she veered away, avoiding a catastrophic collision by a mere fraction of a microt.  "Hezmana, John, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" she yelled through the comms.  
  
The reply was distracted, strained, full of desperation.  "Do it...do it...better you than...please, Aeryn...."    
  
The agony in that voice, greater now than even the night before when she'd found him in his quarters, stabbed her to the heart.  To hear a man like this, whose courage had so often saved her and others, beg for death....  
  
"Let me help you, John.  Let me take you back, so you can get help."  She was unused to this, to soothing fears.  Mercy and compassion.  Weakness, her superiors would say, but if it saved John's life, she didn't care.  
  
"No...no...can't.  Told me...."  
  
The brief distraction of conversation had been enough; with his mind on her, John's course had steadied for the few critical microts Aeryn needed.  One shot at lowest power left the module drifting dead in space, leaking atmosphere, and its occupant cursing a blue streak.  She ignored the stream of insults as she maneuvered to capture the tiny ship in her Marauder's cargo hold.  
  
Once it was safely inside and the hold repressurized, Aeryn killed her engines and set a retrieval beacon.  The carrier would find them soon.  
  
John was out of the _Farscape_ by the time Aeryn arrived, slumped against the far wall with his pulse pistol cradled in one hand.  
  
She froze at the sight, worried by the drawn weapon.  Under normal circumstances, she knew John would never hurt her.  But the circumstances were far from normal, and this might not be the Crichton she knew.  
  
Dark-circled, bloodshot eyes looked up at her, dark hollows bored into a lined and hopeless countenance.  Aeryn shivered.  
  
"John?"  
  
There was no change in expression, none of John's characteristic humor at her uncertainty.  He looked back down at the pistol, and she could see his hand shaking with effort.  
  
"John, put the gun down."  
  
There was a low sound, half moan and half chuckle.  "That's just what Harvey's screaming in my ear, too.  Won't let me...."  His hand shook harder, the gun barrel rising half a dench and then falling again.  
  
"Won't let you what, John?"  She stepped forward slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal.  
  
"Failsafe.  S'what Scorpy said.  Can't kill him.  Can't kill me.  Fucking chip."  John's bleak, horror-filled gaze tilted up towards her, nearly making her flinch at the intensity of pain contained in those eyes.  "You did this, y'know," he accused.  "Went down to that gammak base.  Brought him aboard."  
  
"John, please, try to think."  She crouched down just out of arm's reach, but close enough to lunge forward if she had to.  "Don't you think I would have known if I had brought that monster aboard the carrier?  Don't you think I would have told you?"  
  
That logic seemed to freeze Crichton in place for a microt.  Then he shook his head and gazed back down at his frozen hand around the butt of the pistol.  "Doesn't matter.  Whether he's there or not, he's still in _here._ "  His free hand tapped fiercely at the side of his head.  "He's fighting me.  He wants control.  And he's winning."  
  
"They'll take the chip out, John.  When it's gone, the voices will stop."  
  
"They can't.  They can't remove it, they told me so last night.  This morning.  Whatever.  Not without killing me or leaving me second cousin to a vegetable.  Scorpy said the same thing."  
  
Aeryn met John's pain-filled eyes, trying to discern where his delusions stopped and reality began.  She should have stayed with him last night and frell the consequences.  
  
Slowly, haltingly, John's trembling hand reached out, pistol held loosely.  "Take it, Aeryn.  He won't let me...you do it."  
  
She sucked in a horrified breath as she realized what he was asking.  "No!  You are not giving up, you hear me?  We can fix this!  Someone has to be able to fix this!"  
  
John grasped her hand gently, easing the pistol into her grip, then placed his hand on her cheek.  His eyes, still haunted but now strangely calm, gazed into her own.  "Aeryn, listen to me.  I see two possible futures.  If the chip stays in, pretty soon the Scorpy clone in my head will take over.  I'll be trapped in my own body, with no control, while he does heaven knows what.  If they take it out, there's a good chance I'll be so damaged that High Command will 'retire' my ass, assuming Crais doesn't kill me himself and mount me on his wall as a trophy, or toss me in a cell, brain damaged and helpless."  
  
Aeryn shook her head mutely, not wanting to hear this.  She felt a small vibration through the deck plates, but John seemed not to notice.  Time was running short.  
  
"No matter what, I'm dead.  Or worse than dead.  You understand that fear, Aeryn.  Sebaceans call it the Living Death.  
  
"If I go back, Scorpius wins.  He gets the keys to the kingdom, wormhole technology, and I don't trust him with it."  He raised a finger to her lips to silence her objection.  "Or Crais, if you don't believe in Scorpius.  Neither one of them deserves benefit from what they've done to me.  If I'm going to die, I want to do it knowing they didn't beat me."  
  
He put his hand over hers, caressing both her and the pulse pistol she now held.  "You were willing to do it for Tauvo.  To spare him more pain."  
  
The Marauder jolted suddenly, settling down hard on the carrier's hangar deck.  The vibration she'd felt earlier was the docking web capturing them.  John seemed to realize he was running out of time and grew desperate, dragging Aeryn to her feet and pulling the pistol in her hand upwards to aim at him.  "Do it!  Please, Aeryn...I can't...I won't...please...."    
  
She hesitated.  He wanted this.  In all probability, he was right, and he'd be better off dying here rather than suffering whatever punishment Crais had in store for him.    
  
She gripped the pistol and shifted her finger towards the trigger, seeing a flicker of hope light Crichton's eyes as she did so.  
  
The airlock cycled.  
  
She couldn't do it.  There was still a chance, a faint chance that he could be cured.  That she could have her John Crichton back.  The man she--  
  
Two uniformed security officers pounded into the cargo bay and grappled the struggling Crichton roughly to the deck.  They snapped restraints onto his wrists, then hauled him to his feet.  John continued to struggle and rage, fighting every inch of the way, giving every evidence of insanity.  
  
Aeryn lowered the pistol as she watched them drag the human away.  She'd go to the captain.  She'd tell him what she knew, plead with him to give Crichton a chance to be cured.  Transit madness, though it could hamstring a soldier's career advancement, was not a capital offense.  She would--  
  
A shadow approached out of the corner of her eye.  "Officer Sun, I believe?"  
  
She turned, snapping to attention...then froze, horror-stricken.  
  
"Congratulations, Officer Sun," Scorpius said, a pleased expression twisting his reptilian features.  "You have regained me my prize.  I will see to it you receive a commendation for your efforts."  
  
Without another word, the Scarran half-breed turned and ducked out of the ship through the open airlock.  
  
Aeryn's knees gave out and she collapsed onto the floor, John's pistol clattering away from her nerveless grip.  
  
_Oh, dear Cholak, what have I done?_  


  



End file.
